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DADDY DARWIN FACES THE BOARD. 


THE 


STORY OF A SHORT LIFE 

JACKANAPES 

DADDY DARWIN’S DOVECOT 

(At*. 

By JULIANA HORATIA EWING 



Illustrated hy Gordon Brazen and Randolph Caldecott 


NEW YORK: 

A. L. BURT ; PUBLISHER. 




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THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


















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The Story of a Short Life. 


CHAPTER I. 

“ Arma virumque cano. ” — JEneid. 

“ Man — and the horseradish — are most biting when grated.” 

— Jean Paul Richter. 

“ Most annoying ! ” said the master of the house. 

His thick eyebrows were puckered just then with 
the vexation of his thoughts ; but the lines of 
annoyance on his forehead were to some extent 
fixed lines. They helped to make him look older 
than his age — he was not forty — and they gathered 
into a fierce frown as his elbow was softly touched 
by his little son. 

The child was defiantly like his father, even to a 
knitted brow, for his whole face was crumpled with 
the vigor of some resolve which he found it hard to 
keep, and which was symbolized by his holding the 
little red tip of his tongue between finger and 
thumb. 

“ Put your hands down, Leonard ! Put your 


2 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


tongue in, sir ! What are you after ? What do you 
want ? What are you doing here ? Be off to the 
nursery, and tell Jemima to keep you there. Your 
mother and I are busy.” 

Far behind the boy, on the wall, hung the portrait 
of one of his ancestors — a youth of sixteen. The 
painting was by Yandyke, and it was the most 
valuable of the many valuable things that strewed 
and decorated the room. A very perfect example 
of the great master’s work, and uninjured by time. 
The young cavalier’s face was more interesting than 
handsome, but so eager and refined that, set off as 
it was by pale-hued satin and falling hair, he might 
have been called effeminate, if his brief life, which 
ended on the field of Naseby, had not done more 
than common to prove his manhood. A coat-of- 
arms, blazoned in the corner of the painting, had 
some appearance of having been added later. 
Below this was rudely inscribed, in yellow paint, 
the motto which also decorated the elaborate stone 
mantelpiece opposite — Logins sorte mea. 

Leonard was very fond of that picture. It was 
known to his childish affections as “ Uncle 
Bupert.” He constantly wished that he could get 
into the frame and play with the dog — the dog with 
the upturned face and melancholy eyes, and odd 
resemblance to a long-haired cavalier — on whose 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


3 


faithful head Uncle Rupert’s slender fingers per- 
petually reposed. 

Though not able to play with the dog, Leonard 
did play with Uncle Rupert— the game of trying to 
get out of the reach of his eyes. 

“ I play ‘ Puss-in-the- corner ’ with him,” the 
child was wont to explain ; “ but whichever corner 
I get into, his eyes come after me. The dog looks 
at Uncle Rupert always, and Uncle Rupert always 

looks at me.” “ To see if you are 

growing up a good boy and a gallant young gentle- 
man, such as he was.” So Leonard’s parents and 
guardians explained the matter to him, and he 
devoutly believed them. 

Many an older and less credulous spectator stood 
in the light of those painted eyes, and acknowledged 
their spell. Very marvelous was the cunning which 
by dabs and streaks of color, had kept the spirit of 
this long-dead youth to gaze at his descendants 
from a sheet of canvas and stir the sympathy of 
strangers, parted by more than two centuries from 
his sorrows, with the mock melancholy of painted 
tears. For whether the painter had just overdone 
some trick of representing their liquidness, or 
whether the boy’s eyes had brimmed over as he was 
standing for his portrait (his father and elder 
brother had died in the civil war before him), there 


4 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


remains no tradition to tell. But Vandyke never 
painted a portrait fuller of sad dignity, even in those 
troubled times. 

Happily for his elders, Leonard invented for him- 
self a reason for the obvious tears. 

“ I believe Uncle Bupert knew that they were 
going to chop the poor king’s head olf, and that’s 
why he looks as if he were going to cry.” 

It was partly because the child himself looked as 
if he were going to cry — and that not fractiously, 
but despite a struggle with himself — that, as he 
stood before the master of the house, he might have 
been that other master of the same house come to 
life again at six years of age. His long, fair hair, 
the pliable, nervous fingers, which he had put down 
as he was bid, the strenuous tension of his little 
figure under a sense of injustice, and, above all, his 
beautiful eyes, in which the tears now brimmed 
over the eyelashes as the waters of a lake well up 
through the reeds that fringe its banks. He was 
very, very like Uncle Bupert when he turned those 
eyes on his mother in mute reproach. 

Lady Jane came to his defense. 

“ I think Leonard meant to be good. I made him 
promise me to try and cure himself of the habit of 
speaking to you when you are speaking to some one 
else. But, dear Leonard ” (and she took the hand 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE, 5 

that had touched his father’s elbow), “ I don’t think 
you were quite on honor when you interrupted 
father with this hand, though you were holding 
your tongue with the other. That is what we call 
keeping a promise to the ear and breaking it to the 
sense.” 

All the cavalier dignity came unstarched in 
Leonard’s figure. With a red face he answered 
bluntly, “ I’m very sorry. I meant to keep my 
promise.” 

“ Next time keep it well , as a gentleman should. 
Now, what do you want ? ” 

“ Pencil and paper, please.”" 

“ There they are. Take them to the nursery, as 
father told you.” 

Leonard looked at his father. He had not been 
spoiled for six years by an irritable and indulgent 
parent without learning those arts of diplomacy in 
which children quickly become experts. 

“ Oh, he can stay,” said the master of the house, 
“ and he may say a word now and then, if he doesn’t 
talk too much. Boys can’t sit mumchance always — 
can they, Len ? There, kiss your poor old father, 
and get away, and keep quiet.” 

Lady Jane made one of many fruitless efforts on 
behalf of discipline. 

“ 1 think, dear, as you told him to go, he had bet- 
ter go now.” 


6 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


“ He will go, pretty sharp, if he isn’t good. How 
for pity’s sake, let’s talk out this affair, and let me 
get back to my work.” 

“ Have you been writing poetry this morning, 
father dear ? ” Leonard inquired, urbanely. 

He was now lolling against a writing-table of the 
first empire, where sheets of paper lay like fallen 
leaves among Japanese bronzes, old and elaborate 
candlesticks, grotesque letter-clips and paper 
weights, quaint pottery, big seals, and spring flow- 
ers in slender Venetian glasses of many colors. 

“ I wrote three lines, and was interrupted four 
times,” replied his sire, with bitter brevity. 

“ I think Til write some poetry. I don’t mind 
being interrupted. May I have your ink ? ” 

“ Ho, you may not ! ” roared the master of the 
house, and of the inkpot of priceless china which 
Leonard had seized. “ How, be off to the nur- 
sery ! ” 

“ I won’t touch anything. I am going to draw 
out of the window,” said Leonard, calmly. 

He had practiced the art of being troublesome to 
the verge of expulsion ever since he had had a whim 
of his own, and as skillfully as he had played other 
games. He was seated among the cushions of the 
oriel window-seat (colored rays from coats-of-arms in 
the upper panes falling on his fair hair with a fan- 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


7 


ciful effect of canonizing him for his sudden good- 
ness) almost before his father could reply. 

“ I advise you to stay there, and to keep quiet.” 
Lady Jane took up the broken thread of conver- 
sation in despair. 

“ Have you ever seen him ? ” 

“ Yes ; years ago.” 

“You know I never saw either. Your sister was 
much older than you ; wasn’t she ? ” 

“ The shadows move so on the grass , and the elms 
have so many branches, 1 thinh I shall turn round 
and draw the -fireplace” murmured Leonard. 

“Ten years. You may be sure, if I had been 
grown up I should never have allowed the marriage. 

I cannot think what possessed my father ” 

“ 1 am doing the inscription ! 1 can print Old 

English. What does L dipthong EE T U S 
mean f ” said Leonard. 

“ Lt means joyful , contented , happy. I was at 
Eton at the time. Disastrous ill-luck ! ” 

“ Are there any children ? ” 

“ One son. And to crown all, his regiment is 
at Asholt. Nice family party ! ” 

“ A young man ! Has he been well brought up ? ” 
“ What does ” 

“ Will you hold your tongue , Leonard f Is he 
likely to have been well brought up ? However, 


8 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


he’s ‘in the service/ as they say. I wish it didn’t make 
one think of flunkeys, what with the word service, 
and the liveries (I mean uniforms), and the legs, and 
shoulders, and swagger, and tag-rags, and epaulettes, 
and the fatiguing alertness and attentiveness of 
‘ men in the service.’ ” 

The master of the house spoke with the pettish 
accent of one who says what he does not mean, 
partly for lack of something better to do, and partly 
to avenge some inward vexation upon his hearers. 
He lounged languidly on a couch, but Lady Jane 
sat upright, and her eyes gave an unwonted flash. 
She came of an ancient Scottish race, that had shed 
its blood like water on many a battle-field, genera- 
tions before the family of her English husband had 
become favorites at the court of the Tudors. 

“ I have so many military belongings, both in the 
past and the present, that I have a respect for the 
service ” 

He got up and patted her head, and smiled. 

“ I beg your pardon, my child. Et ego ” — and he 
looked at IJncle Rupert, who looked sadly back 
again : “ but you must make allowances for me. 
Asholt Camp has been a thorn in my side from the 
first. And now to have the barrack-master, and 
the youngest subaltern of a marching regiment ” 

“ He’s our nephew, Rupert ! ” 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE 1 


9 


“Mine — not yours. You’ve nothing to do with 
him, thank goodness.” 

“ Your people are my people. Now do not worry 
yourself. Of course I shall call on your sister at 
once. Will they be here for some time ? ” 

“Five years, you may depend. He’s just the 
sort of man to wedge himself into a snug berth at 
Asholt. You’re an angel, Jane ; you always are. 
But fighting ancestors are one thing ; a barrack- 
master brother-in-law is another.” 

“ Has he done any fighting ? ” 

“ Oh, dear, yes ! Bemedaled like that Guy 
Fawkes general in the pawnbroker’s window, that 
Len was so charmed by. But, my dear, I assure 
you ” 

“ L only just wabt to know what S 0 R T E 
M E A means," Leonard hastily broke in. u I've done 
it all now , and shan't want to know anything more'' 
“sSorte mea is Latin for my fate, or my lot in life. 
Lcetus sorte mea means happy in my lot. Lt is our 
family motto. Now, if you ask another question, off 
you go! After all, Jane, you must allow it’s 
about as hard lines as could be, to have 
a few ancestral acres and a nice old place in 
one of the quietest, quaintest corners of Old Eng- 
land; and for government to come and plant a 
Camp of Instruction, as they call it, and pour in 


10 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


tribes of savages in war-paint to build wigwams 
within a couple of miles of your lodge-gates ! ” 

She laughed heartily. 

“ Dear Eupert ! You are a born poet ! You do 
magnify your woes so grandly. What was the 
brother-in-law like when you saw him ? ” 

“ Oh, the regular type. Hair cut like a pauper, 
or a convict” (the master of the house tossed his 
own locks as he spoke), “ big, swaggering sort of 
fellow, swallowed the poker and not digested it, 
rather good features, acclimatized complexion, 
tight fit of hot-red cloth, and general pipeclay.” 

“ Then he must be the sapper ! ” Leonard an- 
nounced, as he advanced with a firm step and kin- 
dling eyes from the window. “ Jemima’s other 
brother is a gunner. He dresses in blue. But they 
both pipeclay their gloves, and I pipeclayed mine 
this morning, when she did the hearth. You’ve 
no idea how nasty they look while it’s wet, but 
they dry as white as snow, only mine fell among 
the cinders. The sapper is very kind, both to her 
and to me. He gave her a brooch, and he is 
making me a wooden fort to put my cannon in. 
But the gunner is such a funny man ! I said to 
him, ‘ Gunner ! why do you wear white gloves ? ’ 
and he said, ‘Young gentleman, why does a miller 
wear a white hat % ’ He’s very funny. But I think 


7 HE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


11 


I like the tidy one best of all. He is so very beau- 
tiful, and I should think he must be very brave.” 

That Leonard was permitted to deliver himself of 
this speech without a check can only have been due to 
the paralyzing nature of the shock which it inflicted 
on his parents, and of which he himself was pleasantly 
unconscious. His whole soul was in the subject, 
and he spoke with a certain grace and directness of 
address, and with a clear and facile enunciation, 
which were among the child’s most conspicuous 
marks of good breeding. 

“ This is nice ! ” said the master of the house be- 
tween his teeth with a deepened scowl. 

The air felt stormy, and Leonard began to coax. 
He laid his curls against his father’s arm, and asked, 
“ Did you ever see a tidy one , father dear ? He is 
a very splendid sort of man.” 

“ What nonsense are you talking ? What do you 
mean by a tidy one f ” 

There was no mistake about the storm now ; and 
Leonard began to feel helpless, and, as usual in 
such circumstances, turned to Lady Jane. 

“ Mother told me ! ” he gasped. 

The master of the house also turned to Lady 
Jane. 

“ Do you mean you have heard of 
fore?” 


this be- 


12 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


She shook her head, and he seized his son by the 
shoulder. 

“If that woman has taught you to tell un- 
truths ” 

Lady Jane firmly interposed. 

“Leonard never tells untruths, Rupert. Please 
don’t frighten him into doing so. Row, Leonard, 
don’t be foolish and cowardly. Tell mother quite 
bravely all about it. Perhaps she has forgotten.” 

The child was naturally brave ; but the elements 
of excitement and uncertainty in his up-bringing 
were producing their natural results in a nervous 
and unequable temperament. It is not the least 
serious of the evils of being “ spoiled,” though, 
perhaps, the most seldom recognized. Many a fond 
parent justly fears to overdo “ lessons,” who is sur- 
prisingly blind to the brain-fag that comes from the 
strain to live at grown-up people’s level ; and to the 
nervous exhaustion produced in children, no less 
than in their elders, by indulged restlessness, dis- 
content, and craving for fresh excitement, and for 
want of that sense of power and repose which 
comes with habitual obedience to righteous rules 
and regulations. Laws that can be set at naught 
are among the most demoralizing of influences 
which can curse a nation ; and their effects are 
hardly less disastrous in the nursery. Moreover, an 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


13 


uncertain discipline is apt to take even the spoiled by 
surprise ; and, as Leonard seldom fully understood 
the checks he did receive, they unnerved him. He 
was unnerved now ; and, even with his hand in that 
of his mother, he stammered over his story with ill- 
repressed sobs and much mental confusion. 

“ W — we met him out walking. I m — mean we 
were out walking. He was out riding. He looked 
like a picture in my t — t — tales from Froissart. 
He had a very curious kind of a helmet — n — not 
quite a helmet, and a beautiful green feather — at 
least, n — not exactly a feather, and a beautiful red 
waistcoat, only n — not a real waistcoat, b — but ” 

“ Send him to bed ! ” roared the master of the 
house. “ Don’t let him prevaricate any more ! ” 

“Ho, Rupert, please ! I wish him to try and give 
a straight account. How, Leonard, don’t be a 
baby ; but go on and tell the truth, like a brave 
boy.” 

Leonard desperately proceeded, sniffing as he 
did so. 

“ He c — carried a spear, like an old warrior. He 
truthfully did. On my honor ! One end was on 
the tip of his foot, and there was a flag at the othe? 
end— a real fluttering pennon — there truthfully was ! 
He does poke with his spear in battle, I do believe ; 
but he didn’t poke us. He was b — b — beautiful to 


14 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


b — b — be — hold ! I asked Jemima, ‘ Is he another 
brother, for you do have such very nice brothers ? ’ 
and she said, ‘ No, he’s ’ ” 

“ Hcmg Jemima!” said the master of the house. 
“ Now listen to me. You said your mother told 
you. What did she tell you ? ” 

“Je — Je — Jemima said, ‘No, he’s a orderly;’ 
and asked the way — I qu — quite forget where to — I 
truthfully do. And next morning I asked mother 
what does orderly mean ? And she said tidy. So 
I call him the tidy one. Dear mother, you truth- 
fully did — at least,” added Leonard chivalrously, 
as Lady Jane’s face gave no response, “ at least, if 
you’ve forgotten, never mind ; it’s my fault.” 

But Lady Jane’s face was blank because she was 
trying not to laugh. The master of the house did 
not try long. He bit his lip, and then burst into a 
peal. 

“ Better say no more to him,” murmured Lady 
Jane. “ I’ll see Jemima now, if he may stay with 
you.” 

He nodded, and throwing himself back on the 
couch, held out his arms to the child. 

“ Well, that’ll do. Put these men out of your 
head, and let me see your drawing.” 

Leonard stretched his faculties, and perceived 
that the storm was overpast. He clambered on to 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE • 


15 


his father’s knee, and their heads were soon bent 
lovingly together over the much-smudged sheet of 
paper, on which the motto from the chimney-piece 
was irregularly traced. 

“You should have copied it from Uncle Rupert’s 
picture. It is in plain letters there.” 

Leonard made no reply. His head now lay back 
on his father’s shoulder, and his eyes were fixed on 
the ceiling, which was of Elizabethan date, with 
fantastic flowers in raised plaster-work. But 
Leonard did not see them at that moment. His 
vision was really turned inwards. Presently he 
said, “ I am trying to think. Don’t interrupt me, 
father, if you please.” 

The master of the house smiled and gazed com- 
placently at the face beside him. Ho painting, no 
china in his possession, was more beautiful. Sud- 
denly the boy jumped down and stood alone with 
his hands behind his back and his eyes tightly 
shut. 

“ I am thinking very hard, father. Please tell 
me again what our motto means.” 

Lcetus sorte mea — Happy in my lot.’ What 
are you puzzling your little brains about ? ” 

“ Because I know I know something so like it, 
and I can’t think what! Yes — no! Wait a min- 
ute! I’ve just got it! Yes, I remember now: it 
was my Wednesday text]” 


16 


THE STOUT OF A SHORT LIFE. 


He opened wide shining eyes, and clapped his 
hands, and his clear voice rang with the added note 
of triumph, as he cried, “ 4 The lot is fallen unto me 
in a fair ground. Yea, I have a goodly heritage.’ ” 
The master of the house held out his arms with- 
out speaking ; but when Leonard had climbed back 
into them, he stroked the child’s hair slowly, and 
said, 44 Is that your Wednesday text ? ” 

44 Last Wednesday’s. I learn a text every day. 
Jemima sets them. She says her grandmother 
made her learn texts when she was a little girl. 
Now, father dear, I’ll tell you what I wish you 
would do : and I want you to do it at once — this 
very minute.” 

44 That is generally the date of your desires. 
What is it?” 

44 1 don’t know what you are talking about, but I 
know what I want. Now you and I are all alone 
to our very selves, I want you to come to the organ 
and put that text to music like the anthem you 
made out of those texts mother chose for you, for 
the harvest festival. I’ll tell you the words for 
fear you don’t quite remember them, and I’ll blow 
the bellows. You may play on all-fours with both 
your feet and hands ; you may pull out trumpet 
handle ; you may make as much noise as ever you 
like — you’ll see how I’ll blow ! ” 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


17 


Satisfied by the sounds of music that the two 
were happy, Lady Jane was in no haste to go back 
to the library ; but, when she did return, Leonard 
greeted her warmly. 

He was pumping at the bellows handle of the 
chamber organ, before which sat the master of the 
house, not a ruffle on his brow, playing with “ all- 
fours,” and singing as he played. 

Leonard’s cheeks were flushed and he cried im- 
patiently : 

“ Mother! Mother dear! I’ve been wanting 
you ever so long! Father has set my text to 
music, and I want you to hear it ; but I want to 
sit by him and sing too. So you must come and 
blow.” 

“Nonsense, Leonard! Your mother must do 
nothing of the sort. Jane! Listen to this ! — In a 
fa — air grou — nd. Bit of pure melody, that, eh? 
The land flowing with milk and honey seems to 
stretch before one’s eyes ” 

“No ! father, that is unfair. You are not to tell 
her bits in the middle. Begin at the beginning, and 
— mother dear, will you blow, and let me sing ? ” 

“Certainly. Yes, Rupert, please. I’ve done it 
before ; and my back isn’t aching to-day. Do let 
me ! ” 

“ Yes, do let her,” said Leonard, conclusively ; 


18 


THE STOUT OF A SHORT LIFE. 


and he swung himself up into the seat beside his 
father without more ado. 

“Now, father, begin! Mother, listen! And 
when it comes to ‘ Yea] and I pull trumpet handle 
out, blow as hard as ever you can. This first bit; — 
when he only plays — is very gentle, and quite easy 
to blow.” 

Deep breathing of the organ filled a brief silence, 
then a prelude stole about the room. Leonard’s 
eyes devoured his father’s face, and the master 
of the house looking down on him, with the double 
complacency of father and composer, began to 
sing: 

“ The lot — the lot is fallen un-to me ; ” and, his 
mouth wide-parted with smiles, Leonard sang also : 
“ The lot — the lot is fallen — fallen un-to me.” 

“ In a fa — air grou — nd.” 

“ Yea !” (Now, mother dear, blow ! and fancy you 
hear trumpets ! ) 

“ Yea ! YEA ! I have a good-ly her — i — tage ! ” 

And after Lady Jane had ceased to blow, and the 
musician to make music, Leonard still danced and 
sang wildly about the room. 

“ Isn’t it splendid, mother ? Father and I made 
it together out of my Wednesday text. Uncle 
Rupert, can you hear it ? I don’t think you can. I 
believe you are dead and deaf, though you seem to 
see.” 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


19 


And standing face to face with the young cava- 
lier, Leonard sang bis Wednesday text all through : 

“ The lot is fallen unto me in a fair ground ; yea, 
I have a goodly heritage.” 

But Uncle Bupert spoke no word to his young 
kinsman, though he still “ seemed to see ” through 
eyes drowned in tears. 


no 


THE STOliT OF A SHOUT LIFE 


CHAPTER II. 

“ an acre of barren ground ; ling, heath, broom, furze, 

anything. ” 

— Tempest , Act 1. Scene 1. 

“Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife ! 

To all the sensual world proclaim, 

One crowded hour of glorious life ♦ 

Is worth an age without a name.” 

- -Scott. 

Take a highwayman’s heath. 

Destroy every vestige of life with fire and axe, 
from the pine that has longest been a landmark, to 
the smallest beetle smothered in smoking moss. 

Burn acres of purple and pink heather, and pare 
away the young bracken that springs verdant from 
its ashes. 

Let flame consume the perfumed gorse in all its 
glory, and not spare the broom, whose more ex- 
quisite yellow atones for its lack of fragrance. 

In this common ruin be every lesser flower 
involved ; blue beds of speedwell by the wayfarer’s 
path — the daintier milkwort, and rougher red rattle 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


21 


— down to the very dodder that clasps the heather, 
let them perish, and the face of Dame Nature be 
utterly blackened! Then: 

Shave the heath as bare as the back of your hand, 
and if you have felled every tree, and left not so 
much as a tussock of grass or a scarlet toadstool to 
break the force of the winds ; then shall the winds 
come, from the east and from the west, from the 
north and from the south, and shall raise on your 
shaven heath clouds of sand that would not dis- 
credit a desert in the heart of Africa. 

By some such 'recipe the ground was prepared 
for that Camp of Instruction at Asholt which was, 
as we have seen, a thorn in the side of at least one 
of its neighbors. Then a due portion of this sandy 
oasis in a wilderness of beauty was mapped out 
into lines, with military precision, and on these were 
built rows of little wooden huts, which were painted 
a neat and useful black. 

The huts for married men and officers were 
of varying degrees of comfort and homeliness, 
but those for single men were like toy-boxes oi 
wooden soldiers ; it was only by doing it very 
tidily that you could (so to speak) put your pretty 
soldiers away at night when you had done playing 
with them, and get the lid to shut down. 

But then tidiness is a virtue which — like 


22 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


patience — is its own reward. And nineteen 
men who keep themselves clean and their 
belongings cleaner ; who have made their 
nineteen beds into easy chairs before most 
people have got out of bed at all ; whose tin pails 
are kept as bright as average teaspoons (to the 
envy of housewives and the shame of housemaids !) ; 
who establish a common and a holiday side to 
the reversible top of their one long table, and 
scrupulously scrub both : who have a place for every- 
thing and a discipline which obliges everybody to 
put everything in its place — nineteen men, I say, 
with such habits, find more comfort and elbow- 
room in a hut than an outsider might believe possi- 
ble, and hang up a photograph or two into the 
bargain. 

But it may be at once conceded to the credit of 
the camp, that those who lived there thought better 
of it than those who did not, and that those who 
lived there longest were apt to like it best of 
all. 

It was, however, regarded by different people 
from very opposite points of view, in each of which 
was some truth. 

There were those to whom the place and the life 
were alike hateful. 

They said that, from a soldier’s standpoint, the 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


23 


life was one of exceptionally hard work, and uncer- 
tain stay, with no small proportion of the hardships 
and even risks of active service, and none of the more 
glorious chances of war. 

That you might die of sunstroke on the march, or 
contract rheumatism, fever, or dysentery, under 
canvas, without drawing Indian pay and allowances ; 
and that you might ruin your uniform as rapidly as 
in a campaign, and never hope to pin a ribbon over 
its inglorious stains. 

That the military society was too large to find 
friends quickly in the neighborhood, and that as to 
your neighbors in camp, they were sure to get march- 
ing orders just when you had learned to like them. 
And if you did not like them? (But for that matter, 
quarrelsome neighbors are much the same every- 
where. And a boundary road between two estates 
will furnish as pretty a feud as the pump of a com- 
mon back-yard.) 

The haters of the camp said that it had every 
characteristic to disqualify it for a home ; that it 
was ugly and crowded ; without the appliances of 
civilization ; that it was neither town nor country, 
and had the disadvantages of each without the 
merits of either. 

That it was unshaded and unsheltered, that the 
lines were monotonous and yet confusing, and 


24 


THE STOllT OF A SHORT LIFE. 


every road and parade-ground more dusty than 
another. 

That the huts let in the frost in the winter and 
the heat in the summer, and were at once stuffy 
and draughty. 

That the low roofs were like a weight upon your 
head, and that the torture was invariably brought 
to a climax on the hottest of the dog-days, when 
they were tarred and sanded in spite of your teeth ; 
a process which did not insure their being water- 
tight or snow-proof when the weather changed. 

That the rooms had no cupboards, but an unusual 
number of doors, through which no tall man could 
pass without stooping. 

That only the publicity and squalor of the back- 
premises of the “ lines ” — their drying clothes, and 
crumbling mud walls, their coal-boxes and slop- 
pails — could exceed the depressing effects of the 
gardens in front, where such plants as were not 
uprooted by the winds perished of frost or 
drought, and where, if some gallant creeper had 
stood fast and covered the nakedness of your 
wooden hovel, the royal engineers would arrive 
one morning, with as little announcement as the tar 
and sand men, and tear down the growth of years 
before you had finished shaving, for the purpose of 
repainting your outer walls. 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE . 


25 


On the other hand, there were those who had a 
great affection for Asholt, and affection never lacks 
arguments. 

Admitting some hardships and blunders, the 
defenders of the camp fell back successfully upon 
statistics for a witness to the general good health. 

They said that if the camp was windy the breezes 
were exquisitely bracing, and the climate of that 
particular part of England such as would qualify it 
for a health-resort for invalids, were it only situ- 
ated in a comparatively inaccessible part of the 
Pyrenees, instead of being within an hour or two of 
London. 

That this fact of being within easy reach of town 
made the camp practicably at the head-quarters ~of 
civilization and refinement, while the simple and 
sociable ways of living, necessitated by hut-life in 
common, emancipated its select society from rival 
extravagance and cumbersome formalities, 

That the camp stood on the borders of the two 
counties of England which rank highest on the 
books of estate and house-agents, and that if you 
did not think the country lovely and the neighbor- 
hood agreeable you must be hard to please. 

That, as regards the royal engineers, it was one 
of your privileges to be hard to please, since you 
were entitled to their good offices ; and if, after all, 


26 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


they sometimes failed to cure your disordered 
drains and smoky chimneys, you, at any rate, did 
not pay as well as suffer, which is the case in civil life. 

That low doors to military quarters might be re- 
garded as a practical joke on the part of authori- 
ties, who demand that soldiers shall be both tall 
and upright, but that man, whether military or not, 
is an adaptable animal and can get used to any- 
thing ; and indeed it was only those officers whose 
thoughts were more active than their instincts who 
invariably crushed their best hats before starting 
for town. 

That huts (if only they were a little higher !) had 
a great many advantages over small houses, which 
were best appreciated by those who had tried 
drawing lodging allowance and living in villas and 
which would be fully known if ever the lines were 
rebuilt in brick. 

That on moonlit nights the airs that fanned the 
silent camp were as dry and wholesome as by 
day ; that the song of the distant nightingale could 
be heard there ; and finally, that from end to end 
of this dwelling-place of ten thousand to (on occa- 
sion) twenty thousand men, a woman might pass at 
midnight with greater safety than in the country 
lanes of a rural village or a police-protected thor 
oughfare of the metropolis. 


1HE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


27 


But, in truth, the camp’s best defense in the 
hearts of its defenders was that it was a camp — 
military life in epitome, with all its defects and all 
its charm ; not the least of which, to some whimsi- 
cal minds, is, that it represents, as no other phase 
of society represents, the human pilgrimage in 
brief. 

Here be sudden partings, but frequent re unions ; 
the charities and courtesies of an uncertain life 
lived largely in common ; the hospitality of passing 
hosts to guests who tarry but a day. 

Here, surely, should be the home of the sage as 
well as the soldier, where every hut might fitly 
carry the ancient motto, “Dwell as if about to De- 
part,” where work bears the nobler name of duty, 
and where the living, hastening on his business 
amid “"the hurryings of this life,” * must pause and 
stand to salute the dead as he is carried by. 

Bare and dusty are the parade grounds, but they 
are thick with memories. Here were blessed the 
colors that became a young man’s shroud that they 
might not be a nation’s shame. Here march and 
music welcome the coming and speed the parting 
regiments. On this parade the rising sun is 
greeted with gun-fire and trumpet clarions shriller 


Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress. 


23 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE . 


than the cock, and there he sets to a like salute 
with tuck of drum. Here the young recruit drills, 
the warrior puts on his medal, the old pensioner 
steals back to watch them, and the soldiers’ child- 
ren play — sometimes at fighting or flag-wagging,* 
but of tener at funerals ! 


* “ Flag-wagging,” a name among soldiers’ children for “sig- 
naling.” 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


29 


CHAPTER III. 

“ Ut migreturus habita ” (“ Dwell as if about to Depart”). 

— Old House Motto . 

The barrack master’s wife was standing in the 
porch of her hut, the sides of which were of the 
simplest trellis-work of crossed fir-poles, through 
which she could watch the proceedings of the gar- 
dener without baking herself in the sun. Suddenly 
she snatched up a green-lined white umbrella, that 
had seen service in India, and ran out. 

“ O’Reilly ! what is that baby doing ? There ! 
that white-headed child crossing the parade with a 
basket in its little arms ! It’s got nothing on 
its head. Please go and take it to its mother before 
it gets sunstroke.” 

The gardener was an Irish soldier — an old sol- 
dier, as the handkerchief depending from his cap, to 
protect the nape of his neck from the sun, bore wit- 
ness. He was a tall man, and stepped without 
ceremony over the garden paling to get a nearer 


30 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


view of the parade. But he stepped back again at 
once, and resumed his place in the garden. 

“ He’s Corporal Macdonald’s child, madam. The 
Blind Baby, they call him. Hot a bit of harm will 
he get. They’re as hard as nails, the whole lot of 
them. If I was to take him in now, he’d be out 
before my back was turned. His brothers and sis- 
ters are at the school, and Blind Baby’s just as happy 
as the day is long, playing at funerals all the time.” 

“ Blind ! Is he blind ? Poor little soul ! But 
he’s got a great round potato-basket in his arms. 
Surely they don’t make that afflicted infant fetch 
and carry \ ” 

O’Reilly laughed so heartily, that he scandalized 
his bwn sense of propriety. 

“ I ask your pardon, madam. But there’s no fear 
that Blind Baby ’ll fetch and carry. Every man in 
the lines is his nurse.” 

“ But what’s he doing with that round hamper as 
big as himself ? ” 

“It’s just a make-believe for the big drum, 
madam. The 4 Dead March ’is his whole delight. 
Twas only yesterday I said to his father, 4 Corporal,' 
I says, 4 we’ll live to see Blind Baby a band-master 
yet, I says ; 4 it’s a pure pleasure to see him beat out 
a tune with his closed fist.’ 

44 Will I go and borrow a barrow now, madam ? ” 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


31 


added O’Reilly, returning to his duties. He was 
always willing and never idle, but he liked change 
of occupation. 

“No, no. Don’t go away. We sha’n’t want a 
wheelbarrow till we’ve finished trenching this bor- 
der, and picking out the stones. Then you take 
them away and fetch the new soil.” 

“ You’re at a deal of pains, madam, and it’s a poor 
patch when all’s done to it.” 

“ I can’t live without flowers, O’Keilly, and the 
colonel says I may do what I like with this bare 
strip.” 

“ Ah ! Don’t touch the dirty stones with your 
fingers, ma’am. I’ll have the lot picked in no time 
at all.” 

“You see, O’Reilly, you can’t grow flowers in 
sand unless you can command water, and the 
colonel tells me that when it’s hot here the water 
supply runs short, and we mayn’t water the garden 
from the pumps.” 

O’Keilly smiled superior. 

“ The colonel will get what water he wants, 
ma'am. Never fear him ! There’s ways and means. 
Look at the gardens of the royal engineers’ lines. 
In the hottest of summer weather they’re as green 
as Old Ireland ; and it’s not to be supposed that the 
royal engineers can requisition showers from the 


82 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


skies when they need them, more than the rest of 
her majesty’s forces.” 

“ Perhaps the royal engineers do what I mean 
to do — take more pains than usual ; and put in soil 
that will retain some moisture. One can’t make 
poor land yield anything without pains, O’Reilly, 
and this is like the dry bed of a stream — all sand 
and pebbles.” 

“ That’s as true a word as ever ye spoke, madam, 
and if it were not that ’twould be taking a liberty, 
I’d give ye some advice about gardening in camp. 
It’s not the first time I’m quartered in Asholt, and 
I know the ways of it.” 

“ I shall be very glad of advice. You know I 
have never been stationed here before.” 

“ ’ Tis an old soldier’s advice, madam.” 

“ So much the better,” said the lady, warmly. 

O’Reilly was kneeling to his work. He now sat 
back on his heels, and not without a certain dignity 
that bade defiance to his surroundings he com- 
menced his oration. 

“ Please God to spare you and the colonel, 
madam, to put in his time as barrack master at 
this station, ye’ll see many a regiment come and 
go, and be making themselves at home all along. 
And anny one that knows this place, and the 
nature of the soil, tear-rs would overflow his eyes to 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


33 


see the regiments come for drill, and betake them- 
selves to gardening. Maybe the boys have marched 
in footsore and fasting, in the hottest of weather, to 
cold comfort in empty quarters, and they’ll not let 
many hours flit over their heads before some of 
’em ’ll get possession of a load of green turf, and be 
laying it down for borders around their huts. It’s 
the young ones I’m speaking of ; and there ye’ll see 
them, in the blazing sun, with their shirts open, and 
not a thing on their heads, squaring and fitting the 
turfs for bare life, watering them out of old pie- 
dishes and stable-buckets and whatnot, singing and 
whistling, and fetching and carrying between the 
pump and their quarters, just as cheerful as so many 
birds building their nests in the spring.” 

“ A very pretty picture, O’Reilly. Why should 
it bring tears to your eyes ? An old soldier like 
you must know that one would never have a home 
in quarters at all if one did not begin to make it at 
once.” 

“ True for you, madam. Not a doubt of it. But 
it goes to your heart to see labor thrown away ; 
and it’s not once in a hundred times that grass 
planted like that will get hold of a soil like this, 
and the boys themselves at drill all along, or gone 
out under canvas in Bottomless Bog before the 
week’s over, as likely as not.” 


34 


. THE STOUT OF A SHORT LIFE. 


“ That would be unlucky. But one must take 
one’s luck as it comes. And you’ve not told me, 
now, what you do advise for camp gardens.” 

“ That’s just what I’m coming to ma’am. See 
the old soldier ! What does he do ? Turns the 
bucket upside down outside his hut, and sits on it, 
with a cap on his head, and a handkerchief down 
his back, and some tin tacks, and a ball of string — 
trust a soldier’s eye to get the* lines straight — every 
one of them beginning on the ground and going 
nearly up to the roof.” 

“ For creepers, I suppose ? What does the old 
soldier plant ? ” 

“ Beans, madam, — scarlet runners. These are 
the things for Asholt. A few beans are nothing in 
your baggage. They like a warm place, and when 
they’re on the sunny side of a hut they’ve got it, 
and no mistake. They’re growing while you’re on 
duty. The flowers are the right soldier’s color ; 
and when it comes to the beans, ye may put your 
hand out of the window and gather them, and no 
trouble at all.” 

“ The old soldier is very wise ; but I think I must 
have more flowers than that. So I plant, and if 
they die I am very sorry ; and if they live, and 
other people have them, I try to be glad. One 
ought to learn to be unselfish, O’Reilly, and think 
of one’s successors.” 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


35 


And that’s true, madam ; barring that I never 
knew any one’s successor to have the same fancies 
as himself : one plants trees to give shelter, and 
the next cuts them down to let in the air.” 

“Well, I suppose the only way is to be prepared 
for the worst. The rose we planted yesterday by 
the porch is a great favorite of mine ; but the 
colonel calls it 6 Marching Orders.’ It used to grow 
over my window in* my old home, and I have 
planted it by every home I have had since ; but 
the colonel says whenever it settled and began to 
flower the regiment got the route.” 

“ The colonel must name it again, madam,” said 
O’Reilly gallantly, as he hitched up the knees of 
his trousers, and returned to the border. “ It shall 
be 6 Standing Orders ’ now, if soap and water can 
make it blossom, and I’m spared to attend to it all 
the time. Many a hundred roses may you and the 
colonel pluck from it, and never one with a thorn ! ” 
“ Thank you, O’Reilly ; thank you very much. 
Soapy water is very good for roses, I believe ? ” 

“ It is so, madam. I put in a good deal of my 
time as officer’s servant after I was in the Con- 
naught Rangers, and the captain 1 was with one 
time was as fond of flowers as yourself. There was 
a mighty fine rose- bush by his quarters, and every 
morning I had to carry out his bath to it. Re used 


36 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


more soap than most gentlemen, and when he sent 
me to the town for it — 4 It’s not for myself, 
O’Reilly,’ he’d say , 4 so much as for the rose. Bring 
large tablets,’ he’d say, 4 and the best scented ye can 
get. The roses ’ll be the sweeter for it.’ That 
was his way of joking, and never a smile on his 
face. He was odd in many of his ways, was the 
captain, but he was a grand soldier entirely ; a 
good officer, and a good friend to his men, and to 
the wives and children no less. The regiment was 
in India when he died of cholera, in twenty-four 
hours, do what I would. 4 Oh, the cramp in my 
legs, O’Reilly ! ’ he says. 4 God bless ye, captain,’ 
says I, 4 never mind your legs ; I’d manage the 
cramp, sir,’ I says , 4 if I could but keep up your heart.’ 
4 Ye’ll not do that, O’Reilly,’ he says, 4 for all your 
goodness; I lost it too long ago.’ That was his 
way of joking, and never a smile on his face. 
’Twas a pestilential hole we were in, and that’s the 
truth; and cost her majesty more in lives than 
would have built healthy quarters, and given us 
every comfort ; but the flowers throve there if we 
didn’t, and the captain’s grave was filled till ye 
couldn’t get the sight of him for roses. He was a 
good officer, and beloved of his men ; and better 
master never a man had ! ” 

As he ceased speaking, O'Reilly drew his sleeve 


THE STOUT OF A SHORT LIFE . 37 

sharply across his eyes, and then bent again to his 
work, which was why he failed to see what the 
barrack master’s wife saw, and did not for some 
moments discover that she was no longer in the 
garden. The matter was this : 

The barrack master’s quarters were close 
to the Iron Church, and the straight road that ran 
past both was crossed, just beyond the church, by 
another straight road, which finally led out to and 
joined a country highway. From this highway an 
open carriage and pair were being driven into the 
camp as a soldier’s funeral was marching to church. 
The band frightened the horses, who were got past 
with some difficulty, and having turned the sharp 
corner, were coming rapidly toward the barrack 
master’s hut, when Blind Baby, excited by the band, 
strayed from his parade ground, tumbled, basket 
and all, into the ditch that divided it from the road, 
picked up himself and his basket, and was sturdily 
setting forth across the road just as the frightened 
horses came plunging to the spot. 

The barrack master’s wife was not very young, 
and not very slender. Bapid movements were not 
easy to her. She was nervous also, and could never 
afterward remember what she did with herself in 
those brief moments before she became conscious 
that the footman had got to the horses’ heads, 


38 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


and that she herself was almost under their feet, 
with Blind Baby in her arms. Blind Baby himself 
recalled her to consciousness by the ungrateful 
fashion in which he pummeled his deliverer with 
his fists and howled for his basket, which had rolled 
under the carriage to add to the confusion. Nor 
was he to be pacified till O’Reilly took him from 
her arms. 

By this time men had rushed from every hut and 
kitchen, wash-place and shop, and were swarming 
to the rescue ; and through the whole disturbance, 
like minute-guns, came the short barks of a black 
puppy, which Leonard had insisted upon taking 
with him to show to his aunt despite the pro- 
testations of his mother: for it was Lady Jane’s 
carriage, and this was how the sisters met. 

They had been sitting together for some time, so 
absorbed by the strangeness and the pleasure of 
their new relations, that Leonard and his puppy 
had slipped away unobserved, when Lady Jane, 
who was near the window, called to her sister-in- 
law : “ Adelaide, tell me, my dear, is this Colonel 
Jones?” She spoke with some trepidation. It is 
so easy for those unacquainted with uniforms to 
make strange blunders. Moreover, the barrack 
master, though soldierly looking, was so, despite a 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


39 


very unsoldierly defect. He was exceedingly stout, 
and as he approached the miniature garden gate, 
Lady Jane found herself gazing with some anxiety 
to see if he could possibly get through. 

But O’Reilly did not make an empty boast when 
he said that a soldier’s eye was true. The colonel 
came quite neatly through the toy entrance, 
knocked nothing down in the porch, bent and 
bared his head with one gesture as he passed under 
the drawing-room doorway, and bowing again 
to Lady Jane, moved straight to the side of his 
wife. 

Something in his action — a mixture of dignity 
and devotion, with just a touch of defiance — went to 
Lady Jane’s heart. She went up to him and held 
out both her hands : “ Please shake hands with 
me, Colonel Jones. I am so very happy to have 
found a sister ! ” In a moment more she turned 
round, saying: I must show you your nephew. 
Leonard ! ” But Leonard was not there. 

“I fancy I have seen him already,” said the 
colonel. “ If he is a very beautiful boy, very beau- 
tifully dressed in velvet, he’s with O’Reilly, watching 
the funeral.” 

Lady Jane looked horrified, and Mrs. Jones 
looked much relieved. 

“ He’s quite safe if he’s with O’Reilly. But give 


40 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


me my sunshade, Henry, please : I dare say Lady 
Jane would like to see the funeral too.” 

It is in Asholt amenity to take care that you 
miss no opportunity of seeing a funeral. It would 
not have occurred to Lady Jane to wish to go, hut 
as her only child had gone she went willingly to 
look for him. As they turned the corner of the hut 
they came straight upon it, and at that moment the 
“dead march ” broke out afresh. 

The drum beat out those familiar notes which 
strike upon the heart rather than the ear, the brass 
screamed, the ground trembled to the tramp of feet 
and the lumbering of the gun carriage, and Lady 
Jane’s eyes filled suddenly w r ith tears at the sight of 
the dead man’s accoutrements lying on the Union 
Jack that serves a soldier for a pall. As she dried 
them she saw Leonard. 

Drawn up in the accurate line with the edge of 
the road, O’Reilly was standing to salute ; and as 
near to the Irish private as he could squeeze him- 
self stood by the boy, his whole body stretched to 
the closest possible imitation of his new and' deeply- 
revered friend, his left arm glued to his side, and 
the back of his little right hand laid against his 
brow, gazing at the pathetic pageant as it passed 
him with devouring eyes. And behind them stood 
Blind Baby, beating upon his basket. 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


41 


For the basket had been recovered, and Blind 
Baby’s equanimity also ; and he wandered up and 
down the parade again in the sun, long after the 
soldier’s funeral had wailed its way to the grave- 
yard, over the heather-covered hilL 


42 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


CHAPTEE IY. 

“My mind is in the anomalous condition of hating war, 
and loving its discipline, which has been an incalculable con- 
tribution to the sentiment of duty .... the devotion 
of the common soldier to his leader (the sign for him of hard 
duty), is the type of all higher devotedness, and is full of 
promise to other and better generations. ” 

— George Eliot. 

“ Your sister is as nice as nice can be, Eupert : and 
I like the barrack master very much, too. He is 
stout ! But he is very active and upright, and his 
manners to his wife are wonderfully pretty. Do 
you know, there is something to me most touching 
in the way these two have knocked about the world 
together, and seem so happy with so little. Cot- 
tagers could hardly live more simply and yet their 
ideas, or at any rate their experiences, seem so 
much larger than one’s own.” 

“ My dear Jane ! if you’ve taken them up 
from the romantic point of view all is, indeed, 
accomplished. I know the wealth of your imagi- 
nation, and the riches of its charity. If, in such a 
mood, you will admit that Jones is stout, he must 


2 HE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


43 


be fat indeed ! Never again upbraid me with the 
price that I paid for that Chippendale armchair. It 
will hold the barrack master.” 

“ Rupert ! — I cannot help saying it — it ought to 
have held him long ago. It makes me miserable to 
think that they have never been under our roof.” 

“ Jane ! Be miserable if you must ; but, at least, 
be accurate. The barrack master was in India 
when I bought that paragon of all Chips, and he 
has only come home this year. Nay, my dear! 
Don’t be vexed ! I give you my word, I’m a good 
deal more ashamed than I like to own to think how 
Adelaide has been treated by the family — with me 
as its head. Did you make my apologies to-day, 
and tell her that I shall ride out to-morrow and pay 
my respects to her and Jones?” 

“ Of course. I told her you were obliged to go to 
town, and I would not delay to call and ask if I 
could be of use to them. I begged them to come 
here till their quarters are quite finished ; but they 
won’t. They say they are settled. I could not' say 
much, because we ought to have asked them sooner. 
He is rather on his dignity with us, I think, and no 
wonder.” 

“He’s disgustingly on his dignity! They both 
are. Because the family resented the match at first, 
they have refused every kind of help that one would 


44 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


have been glad to give him as Adelaide’s husband, 
if only to secure their being in a decent position. 
Neither interest nor money would he accept, and 
Adelaide has followed his lead. She has very little 
of her own, unfortunately ; and she knows how my 
father left things as well as I do, and never would 
accept a farthing more than her bare rights. I 
tried some dodges, through Quills ; but it was of no 
use. The vexation is that he has taken this post of 
barrack master as a sort of pension, which need 
never have been. I suppose they have to make 
that son an allowance. It’s not likely he lives on 
his pay. I can’t conceive how they scrub along.” 

And as the master of the house threw himself into 
the paragon of all Chips, he ran his fingers through 
hair, the length and disorder of which would have 
made the barrack master feel positively ill, with a 
gesture of truly dramatic despair. 

“ Your sister has made her room look wonderfully 
pretty. One would never imagine those huts could 
look as nice as they do inside. But it’s like playing 
with a doll’s house. One feels inclined to examine 
everything, and to be quite pleased that the 
windows have glass in them and will really open 
and shut.” 

The master of the house raised his eyebrows 
funnily. 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


45 


“ You did take rose-colored spectacles with you to 
the camp ! ” 

Lady Jane laughed. 

“I did not see the camp itself through them. 
What an incomparably dreary place it is ! It makes 
me think of little woodcuts in missionary reports — 
‘Sketch of a Native Settlement’ — rows of little 
black huts that look, at a distance, as if one must 
creep into them on all-fours ; nobody about, and an 
iron church on the hill.” 

“ Most accurately described ! And you wonder 
that I regret that a native settlement should have 
been removed from the enchanting distance of mis- 
sionary reports to become my permanent neighbor?” 

“Well, I must confess the effect it produces on 
me is to make me feel quite ashamed of the peace 
and pleasure of this dear old place, the shade and 
greenery outside, the space above my head, and the 
lovely things before my eyes inside (for you know, 
Kupert, how I appreciate your decorative tastes, 
though I have so few myself. I only scolded about 
the Chip because I think you might have got him 
for less) — when so many men bred to similar com- 
forts, and who have served their country so well, 
with wives I dare say quite as delicate as I am, have 
to be cooped up in those ugly little kennels in that 
dreary place ” 


46 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


“ What an uncomfortable thing a Scotch con- 
science is ! ” interrupted the master of the house. 

“ By-the-by, those religious instincts, which are 
also characteristic of your race, must have found 
one redeeming feature in the camp, the 4 iron church 
on the hill ; ’ especially as I imagine that it is puri- 
tanically ugly ! ” 

“ There was a funeral going into it as we drove 
into camp, and I wanted to tell you the horses were 
very much frightened.” 

“Richards fidgets those horses; they’re quiet 
enough with me.” 

“ They did not like the military band.” 

“ They must get used to the band and to other 
military nuisances. It is written in the stars, as I 
too clearly foresee, that we shall be driving in and 
out of that camp three days a- week. I can’t go to 
my club without meeting men I was at school with 
who are stationed at Asholt, and expect me to look 
them up. As to the women, I met a man yesterday 
who is living in a hut, and expects a dowager count- 
ess and her two daughters for the ball. He has 
given up his dressing-room to the dowager, and put 
two barrack-beds into the coal-hole for the young 
ladies, he says. It’s an insanity ! ” 

“ Adelaide told me about the ball. The camp 
seems very gay just now. They have had theatri- 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


47 


cals ; and there is to be a grand field day this 
week.” 

“ So our visitors have already informed me. They 
expect to go. Louisa Main waring is looking hand- 
somer than ever, and I have always regarded her as 
a girl with a mind. I took her to see the peep I 
have cut opposite to the island, and could not im- 
agine why those fine eyes of hers looked so blank. 
Presently she said, ‘ I suppose you can see the camp 
from the little pine- wood ? 5 And to the little pine- 
wood we had to go. Both the girls have got stiff 
necks with craning out of the carriage window to 
catch sight of the white tents among the heather as 
they came along in the train.” 

“ I suppose we must take them to the field day ; 
but I am very nervous about those horses, Bupert.” 

“ The horses will be taken out before any firing 
begins. As to bands, the poor creatures must learn, 
like their master, to endure the brazen liveliness of 
military music. It’s no fault of mine that our 
nerves are scarified by any sounds less soothing 
than the crooning of the wood-pigeons among the 
pines ! ” 

No one looked forward to the big field day with 
keener interest than Leonard ; and only a few privi- 
leged persons knew more about the arrangements 
for the day than he had contrived to learn. 


48 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


O’Reilly was sent over with a note from Mrs. 
Jones to decline the offer of a seat in Lady Jane’s 
carriage for the occasion. She was not very 
well. Leonard waylaid the messenger (whom 
he hardly recognized as a tidy one ! ), and O’Reilly 
gladly imparted all that he knew about the 
field day : and this was a good deal. He had it 
from a friend — a corporal in the head quartersoffice. 

As a rule, Leonard only enjoyed a limited pop- 
ularity with his mother’s visitors. He was very 
pretty and very amusing, and had better qualities 
even than these ; but he was restless and trouble- 
some. On this occasion, however, the young ladies 
suffered him to trample their dresses and inter- 
rupt their conversation without remonstrance. He 
knew more about the field day than any one in the 
house, and, standing among their pretty furbelows 
and fancywork in stiff military attitudes, he im- 
parted his news with an unsuccessful imitation of an 
Irish accent. 

“O’Reilly says the march past’ll be at eleven 
o’clock on the sandy slopes.” 

“Louisa, is that Major O’Reilly of the rifles? ” 

“ I don’t know, dear. Is your friend O’Reilly in 
the rifles, Leonard ? ” 

“ I don’t know. I know he’s an owld soldier — 
he told me so.” 


THE STOUT OF A SHORT LIFE. 


49 


“ Old, Leonard ; not owld. You mustn’t talk like 
that.” 

“ I shall if I like. He does, and I mean to.” 

“ I dare say he did, Louisa. He’s always joking.” 

“Ho he isn’t. He didn’t joke when the funeral 
went past. He looked quite grave, as if he was 
saying his prayers, and stood so.” 

“ How touching ! ” 

“ How like him ! ” 

“ How graceful and tender-hearted Irishmen 
are ! ” 

“ I stood so, too. I mean to do as like him as 
ever I can. I do love him so very very much ! ” 

“ Dear boy ! ” 

“ You good, affectionate little soul ! ” 

“ Give me a kiss, Leonard dear.” 

“ Ho, thank you. I’m too old for kissing. He’s 
going to march past, and he’s going to look out for 
me with the tail of his eye, and I’m going to look 
out for him.” 

“ Do, Leonard ; and mind you tell us when you 
see him coming.” 

“ I can’t promise. I might forget. But perhaps 
you can know him by the good-conduct stripe on 
his arm. He used to have two ; but he lost one all 
along of St. Patrick’s Day.” 

“ That can't be your partner, Louisa ! ” 


50 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


“ Officers never have good-conduct stripes.” 

“ Leonard, you ought not to talk to common sol- 
diers. You’ve got a regular Irish brogue, and you’re 
learning all sorts of ugly words. You’ll grow 
up quite a vulgar little boy, if you .don’t take 
care.” 

“ I don’t want to take care. I like being Irish, 
and I shall be a vulgar little boy too, if I choose. 
But when I do grow up, I am going to grow into 
an owld, owld, owld soldier ! ” 

Leonard made this statement of his intentions in 
his clearest manner. After which, having learned 
that the favor of the fair is fickleness, he left 
the ladies and went to look for his black puppy. 

The master of the house, in arranging for his visit- 
ors to go to the field day, he said that Leonard 
was not to be of the party. He had no wish to en- 
courage the child’s fancy for soldiers : and as Leon- 
ard was invariably restless out driving, and had a 
trick of kicking people’s shins in his changes of 
mood and position, he was a most uncomfortable 
element in a carriage full of ladies. But it is need- 
less to say that he stoutly resisted his father’s de- 
cree ; and the child’s disappointment was so bitter, 
and he howled and wept himself into such a deplor- 
able condition that the young ladies sacrificed their 
own comfort and the crispness of their new dresses 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE- 


61 


to his grief, and petitioned the master of the house 
that he might be allowed to go. 

The master of the house gave in. He was accus- 
tomed to yield where Leonard was concerned. But 
the concession proved only a prelude to another 
struggle. Leonard wanted the black puppy to go 
too. 

On this point the young ladies presented no peti- 
tion. Leonard’s boots they had resolved to endure, 
but not the dog’s paws. Lady Jane, too, protested 
against the puppy, and the matter seemed settled ; 
but at the last moment, when all but Leonard were 
in the carriage, and the horses chafing to be off, the 
child made his appearance, and stood on the en- 
trance steps with his puppy in his arms, and an- 
nounced, in dignified sorrow, “ I really cannot go if 
my Sweep has to be left behind.” 

With one consent the grown-up people turned to 
look at him. 

Even the intoxicating delight that color gives 
can hardly exceed the satisfying pleasure in which 
beautiful proportions steep the sense of sight ; and 
one is often at fault to find the law that has been 
so exquisitely fulfilled, when the eye has no doubt 
of its own satisfaction. 

The shallow stone steps, on the top of which 
Leonard stood, and the old doorway that framed 


52 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


him, had this mysterious grace, and, truth to say, 
the boy’s beauty was a jewel not unworthy of its 
setting. 

A holiday dress of crimson velvet, with collar and 
ruffles of old lace, became him very quaintly ; and 
as he laid a cheek like a rose-leaf against the sooty 
head of his pet, and they both gazed piteously at 
the carriage, even Lady Jane’s conscience was 
stifled by motherly pride. He was her only child, 
but as he had said of the orderly, “ a very splendid 
sort of one.” 

The master of the house stamped his foot with 
an impatience that was partly real and partly, per- 
haps, affected. 

“Well, get in somehow, if you mean to. The 
horses can’t wait all day for you.” 

Ho ruby-throated humming bird could have 
darted more swiftly from one point to another than 
Leonard from the old gray steps into the carriage. 
Little boys can be very careful when they choose, 
and he trod on no toes and crumpled no finery in 
his flitting. 

To those who know dogs, it is needless to say 
that the puppy showed an even superior discretion, 
It bore throttling without a struggle. Instinctively 
conscious of the alternative of being shut up in a 
stable for the dav : and left there to bark its heart 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


53 


out, it shrank patiently into Leonard’s grasp, and 
betrayed no sign of life except in the strained and 
pleading anxiety which a puppy’s eyes so often 
wear. 

“ Your dog is a very good dog, Leonard, I must 
say,” said Louisa Mainwaring ; “ but he’s very ugly. 
I never saw such legs ! ” 

Leonard tucked the lank black legs under his vel- 
vet and ruffles. “Oh, he’s all right,” he said. 
“ He’ll be very handsome soon. It’s his ugly 
month.” 

“ I wonder you didn’t insist on our bringing 
Uncle Eupert and his dog to complete the party,” 
said the master of the house. 

The notion tickled Leonard, and he laughed so 
heartily that the puppy’s legs got loose, and re- 
quired to be tucked in afresh. Then both remained 
quiet for several seconds, during which the puppy 
looked as anxious as ever ; but Leonard’s face wore 
a smile of dreamy content that doubled its loveli- 
ness. 

But as the carriage passed the windows of the 
library a sudden thought struck him, and dispersed 
his repose. 

Gripping his puppy firmly under his arm, he sprang 
to his feet — regardless of other people’s — and waving 
his cap and feather above his head he cried aloud, 


54 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


“ Good-by, Uncle Enpert ! Can you hear me ? 
Uncle Eupert, I say ! I am — Icetus — sorte — mea ! ” 


All the camp was astir. 

Men and bugles awoke with the dawn and the 
birds, and now the women and children of all ranks 
were on the alert. (Nowhere does so large and en- 
thusiastic a crowd collect “ to see the pretty 
soldiers go by,” as in those places where pretty 
soldiers live.) 

Soon after gun-fire O’Eeilly made his way from 
his own quarters to those of the barrack master, 
opened the back door by some process best known 
to himself, and had been busy for half an hour in 
the drawing-room before his proceedings woke the 
colonel. They had been as noiseless as possible; 
but the colonel’s dressing-room opened into the 
drawing-room, his bedroom opened into that, and 
all the doors and windows were open to court the 
air. 

“Who’s there?” said the colonel from his 
pillow. 

“ ’Tis O’Eeilly, sir. I ask your pardon, sir ; but 
I heard that the mistress was not well. She’ll be 
apt to want the reclining-chair, sir ; and ’twas 
damaged in the unpacking. I got the screws last 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


55 


night, but I was busy soldiering* till too late ; so I 
came in this morning, for Smith’s no good at a job 
of the kind at all. He’s a butcher to his trade.” 

“ Mrs. Jones is much obliged to you for thinking 
of it, O’Reilly.” 

“ ’Tis an honor to oblige her, sir. I done it sound 
and secure. ’Tis as safe as a rock ; but I’d like to 
nail a bit of canvas on from the porch to the other 
side of the hut, for shelter, in case she’d be sitting 
out to taste the air and see the troops go by. ’Twill 
not take me five minutes, if the hammering wouldn’t 
be too much for the mistress. ’Tis a hot day, sir, 
for certain, till the guns bring the rain down.” 

“ Put it up, if you’ve time.” 

“ I will, sir. I left your sword and gloves on the 
kitchen-table, sir ; and I told Smith to water the 
rose before the sun’s on to it.” 

With which O’Reilly adjusted the cushions of the 
invalid-chair, and having nailed up the bit of canvas 
outside, so as to form an impromptu veranda, he ran 
back to his quarters to put himself into marching 
order for the field day. 

The field day broke into smiles of sunshine too 
early to be lasting. By breakfast time the rain 
came down without waiting for the guns; but 

*“ Soldiering ” — a barrack term for the furbishing up of 
accoutrements, &c. 


56 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


those most concerned took the changes of weather 
cheerfully, as soldiers should. Rain damages uni- 
forms, but it lays dust ; and the dust of the sandy 
slopes was dust indeed ! 

After a pelting shower the sun broke forth again, 
and from that time onward the weather was 
“queen’s weather,” and Asholt was at its best. 
The sandy camp lay girdled by a zone of the ver- 
dure of early summer, which passed by miles of 
distance, through exquisite gradations of many blues, 
to meet the soft threatenings of the changeable 
sky. Those lowering and yet tender rain-clouds 
which hover over the British Isles, guardian spirits 
of that scantly recognized blessing — a temperate 
climate ; Naiads of the waters over the earth, whose 
caprices between storm and sunshine fling such 
beauty upon a landscape as has no parallel except 
in the common simile of a fair face quivering 
between tears and smiles. 

Smiles were in the ascendant as the regiments 
began to leave their parade-grounds, and the sur- 
face of the camp (usually quiet, even to dullness) 
sparkled with movement. Along every principal 
road the color and glitter of marching troops 
rippled like streams, and as the band of one regi- 
ment died away another broke upon the excited 




ear. 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


57 


At the outlets of the camp eager crowds waited 
patiently in the dusty hedges to greet favorite regi- 
ments, or watch for personal friends among the 
troops ; and on the ways to the sandy slopes every 
kind of vehicle, from a drag to a donkey-cart, and 
every variety of pedestrian, from an energetic 
tourist carrying a field-glass to a more admirably 
energetic mother carrying a baby, disputed the 
highway with cavalry in brazen breastplates, and 
horse-artillery whose gallant show was drowned in 
its own dust. 

Lady Jane’s visitors had expressed themselves as 
anxious not to miss anything, and troops were still 
pouring out of the camp when the master of the 
house brought his skittish horses to where a “ block” 
had just occurred at the turn to the sandy slopes. 

What the shins and toes of the visitors endured 
while that knot of troops of all arms disentangled 
itself and streamed away in gay and glittering 
lines, could only have been concealed by the 
supreme powers of endurance latent in the weaker 
sex ; for with the sight of every fresh regiment 
Leonard changed his plans for his own future 
career, and with every change he forgot a fresh 
promise to keep quiet, and took by storm that 
corner of the carriage which for the moment offered 
the best point of view. 


5S 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


Suddenly, through the noise and dust, and above 
the dying away of conflicting bands into the dis- 
tance, there came another sound — a sound unlike 
any other — the skirling of the pipes ; and Lady 
Jane sprang up and put her arms about her son, 
and bade him watch for the Highlanders, and if 
Cousin Alan looked up as he went past to cry 
“ Hurrah for Bonnie Scotland ! ” 

For this sound and this sight — the bagpipes and 
the Highlanders — a sandy-faced Scotch lad on the 
tramp to Southampton had waited for an hour past, 
frowning and freckling his face in the sun, and 
exasperating a naturally dour temper by reflecting 
on the probable pride and heartlessness of folk who 
wore such soft complexions and pretty clothes as 
the ladies and the little boy in the carriage on the 
other side of the road. 

But when the skirling of the pipes cleft the air 
his cold eyes softened as he caught sight of 
Leonard’s face, and the echo that he made to 
Leonard’s cheer was caught up by the good- 
humored crowd, who gave the Scotch regiment a 
willing ovation as it swung proudly by. After 
which the carriage moved on, and for a time 
Leonard sat very still. He was thinking of Cousin 
Alan and his comrades; of the tossing plumes that 
shades their fierce eyes ; of the swing of kilt 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


59 


and sporran with their unfettered limbs; of the 
rhythmic tread of their white feet and the flutter- 
ing ribbons on the bagpipes ; and of Alan’s hand- 
some face looking out of his most becoming 
bravery. 

The result of his meditations Leonard announced 
with his usual lucidity : 

“ I am Scotch, not Irish, though O’Reilly is the 
nicest man I ever knew. But I must tell him that I 
really cannot grow up into an owld soldier, because 
I mean to be a young Highland officer, and look at 
ladies with my eyes like this — and carry my sword 
so/” 


60 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


CHAPTER V. 


“ Oh that a man might know the end of this day’s business 
ere it comes ! ” 


— Julius Ccesar. 


Years of living among soldiers had increased, 
rather than diminished, Mrs. Jones’ relish for the 
sights and sounds of military life. 

The charm of novelty is proverbially great, but 
it is not so powerful as that peculiar spell which 
drew the retired tallow-chandler back to “ shop ” 
on melting-days, and which guided the choice of 
the sexton of a cemetery who only took one holiday 
trip in the course of seven years, and then he went 
to a cemetery at some distance to see how they 
managed matters there. And, indeed, poor human- 
ity may be very thankful for the infatuation, since 
it goes far to make life pleasant in the living to 
plain folk who do not make a point of being dis- 
contented. 

In obedience to this law of nature, the barrack 
master’s wife did exactly what O’Reilly had 
expected her to do. As she could not drive to the 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


61 


field day, she strolled out to see the troops go by. 
Then the vigor derived from breakfast and the 
freshness of the morning air began to fail, the day 
grew hotter, the camp looked dreary and deserted, 
and either from physical weakness or from some 
untold cause, a nameless anxiety, a sense of trouble 
in the air began to oppress her. 

Wandering out again to try and shake it off, it 
was almost a relief, like the solving of a riddle, 
to find Blind Baby sitting upon his big drum, too 
low-spirited to play the dead march, and crying 
because all the bands had “gone right away.” 
Mrs. Jones made friends with him, and led him off 
to her hut for consolation, and he was soon as 
happy as ever, standing by the piano and beating 
upon his basket in time to the tunes she played for 
him. But the day and the hut grew hotter, and 
her back ached, and the nameless anxiety re-asserted 
itself, and was not relieved by Blind Baby’s prefer- 
ence for the dead march over every other tune with 
which she tried to beguile him. 

And when he had gone back to his own parade, 
with a large piece of cake and many assurances 
that the bands would undoubtedly return, and the 
day wore on, and the hut became like an oven (in 
the absence of any appliances to mitigate the heat), 
the barrack master’s wife came to the hasty con- 


62 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


elusion that Asholt was hotter than India, what- 
ever thermometers might say; and, too weary to 
seek for breezes outside, or to hnd a restful angle 
of the reclining chair inside, she folded her hands in 
her lap and abandoned herself to the most universal 
remedy for most ills — patience. And patience was 
its own reward, for she fell asleep. 

Her last thoughts as she dozed off were of her 
husband and her son, wishing that they were safe 
home again, that she might assure herself that it 
was not on their account that there was trouble in 
the air. Then she dreamed of being roused by the 
colonel’s voice saying, “I have bad news to tell 

you ” and was really awakened by straining 

in her dream to discover what hindered him from 
completing his sentence. 

She had slept some time — it was now afternoon, 
and the air was full of sounds of the returning 
bands. She went out into the road and saw the 
barrack master (he was easy to distinguish at some 
distince !) pause on his homeward way, and then she 
saw her son running to join his father, with his 
sword under his arm ; and they came on together, 
talking as they came. 

And as soon as they got within earshot she said, 
“ Have you bad news to tell me ? ” 

The colonel ran up and drew her hand in his arm. 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


63 


“ Come indoors, dear love.” 

“ You are both well ? ” 

“ Both of us. Brutally so.” 

“ Quite well, dear mother.” 

Her son was taking her other hand into caress- 
ing care ; there could be no doubt about the bad 
news. 

“ Please tell me what it is.” 

“ There has been an accident ” 

“ To whom ? ” 

“To your brother’s child; that jolly little 
chap ” 

“ Oh, Henry ! how ? ” 

“ He was standing up in the. carriage, I believe, 
with a dog in his arms. George saw him when he 
went past — didn’t you ? ” 

“Yes. I wonder he didn’t fall then. I fancy 
some one had told him it was our regiment. The 
dog was struggling, but he would take off his hat to 
us ” 

The young soldier choked, and added with 
difficulty, “ I think I never saw so lovely a face 
Poor little cousin ! ” 

“ And he overbalanced himself ? ” 

“ Hot when George saw him. I believe it was 
when the horse artillery were going by at the gallop. 
They say he got so much excited, and the dog 


64 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


barked, and they both fell. Some say there were 
people moving a drag, and some that he fell under 
the horse of a patrol. Anyhow, I’m afraid he’s 
very much hurt. They took him straight home in 
an ambulance-wagon to save time. Erskine went 
with him. I sent off a telegram for them for a 
a swell surgeon from town, and Lady Jane promised 
a line if I send over this evening. O’Reilly must 
go after dinner and wait for the news.” 

O’Reilly, sitting stiffly amid the coming and 
going of the servants at the Hall, was too deeply 
devoured by anxiety to trouble himself as to 
whether the footman’s survey of his uniform 
bespoke more interest or contempt. But when — 
just after gun-fire had sounded from the distant 
camp— Jemima brought him the long-waited-for 
note, he caught the girl’s hand, and held it for some 
moments before he was able to say, “ Just tell me, 
miss ; is it good news or bad that I’ll be carrying 
back in this bit of paper?” And as Jemima only 
answered by sobs, he added, almost impatiently, 
“Will he live, dear? Hod your head if ye can do 
no more.” 

Jemima nodded, and the soldier dropped her 
hand, drew a long breath, and gave himself one of 
those shakes with which an Irishman so often 
throws off care. 


THE STOUT OF A SHORT LIFE. 


65 


“ Ah, then, dry your eyes, darlin’ ; while there’s 
life there’s hope.” 

But Jemima sobbed still. 

“ The doctor — from London — says he may live a 
good while, but — but — he’s to be a cripple all his 
days ! ” 

“ Now wouldn’t I rather be meeting a tiger this 
evening than see the mistress’ face when she gets 
that news ! ” 

And O’Reilly strode back to camp. 

Going along through a shady part of the road in 
the dusk, seeing nothing but the red glow of the 
pipe with which he was consoling himself, the 
soldier stumbled against a lad sleeping on the grass 
by the roadside. It was the tramping Scotchman, 
and as he sprang to his feet the two Kelts broke 
into a fiery dialogue that seemed as if it could only 
come to blows. 

It did not. It came to the good-natured soldier’s 
filling the wayfarer’s pipe for him. 

“Much good may it do ye! And maybe the 
next time a decent man that’s hastening home on 
the wings of misfortune stumbles against ye, ye’ll 
not be so apt to take offense.” 

“ I ask your pardon, man ; I was barely wakened, 
and I took ye for one of these gay red-coats bluster- 
ing hame after a bloodless battle on the field day, 
as they ca’ it.’ 7 


66 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


44 Bad luck to the field day ! A darker never 
dawned ; and wouldn’t a bloodier battle have spared 
a child ? ” 

44 Your child? What’s happened to the bairn?” 

44 My child indeed! And his mother a lady of 
title, no less.” 

44 What’s got him ? ” 

“ Fell out of the carriage, and was trampled into 
a cripple for all the days of his life. He that had 
set as fine a heart as ever beat on being a soldier ; 
and a grand one he’d have made. 4 Sure ’tis a 
nobleman ye’ll be,’ says I. 4 Tis an owld soldier I 
mean to be, O’Beilly,’ says he. And ” 

44 Fond of the soldiers — his mother a leddy ? Man ! 
Had he a braw new velvet coat and the face of an 
angel on him ? ” 

44 He had so.” 

44 And I that thocht they’d all this warld could 
offer them ! — A cripple ? Ech sirs ! ” 


1HE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE . 


67 


CHAPTER Y. 

“ I will do it. . . . for I am weak by nature, and very tim- 
orous, unless where a strong sense of duty holdeth and sup- 
ported me. There God acteth, and not His creature.” 

— Lady Jane Grey. 

Leonard was to some extent a spoiled child. Rut 
it demands a great deal of unselfish foresight, and of 
self-discipline, to do more for a beautiful and loving 
pet than play with it. 

And if his grace and beauty and high spirits had 
been strong temptations to give him everything he 
desired, and his own way above all, how much 
greater were the excuses for indulging every whim 
when the radiant loveliness of health had faded to 
the wan wistfulness of pain, when the young limbs 
bounded no more, and when his boyish hopes and 
hereditary ambitions were cut off by the shears of a 
destiny that seemed drearier than death ? 

As soon as the poor child was able to be moved 
his parents took a place on the west coast of Scot- 
land, and carried him thither. 


68 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


The neighborhood of Asholt had become intoler 
able by them for some time to come, and a soft cli. 
mate and sea-breezes were recommended for hi* 
general health. 

Jemima’s dismissal was revoked. Leonard flatly* 
and indeed furiously, refused to have any othei 
nurse. During the first crisis a skilled hospital 
nurse was engaged, but from the time that he fully 
recovered consciousness he would receive help from 
no hands but those of Jemima and Lady Jane. 

Far older and wiser patients than he become 
ruthless in their demands upon the time and 
strength of those about them ; and Leonard did not 
spare his willing slaves by night or by day. It in- 
creased their difficulties and his sufferings that the 
poor child was absolutely unaccustomed to prompt 
obedience, and disputed the doctor’s orders as he 
had been accustomed to dispute all others. 

Lady Jane’s health became very much broken, 
but Jemima was fortunately possessed of a sturdy 
body and an inactive mind, and with a devotion lit- 
tle less than maternal she gave up both to Leonard’s 
service. 

He had a third slave of his bed-chamber — a black 
one — the black puppy, from whom he had reso- 
lutely refused to part, and whom he insisted upon 
having upon his bed to the doctor’s disgust. When 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


69 

months passed and the black puppy became a black 
dog, large and cumbersome, another effort was 
made to induce Leonard to part with him at night ; 
but he only complained bitterly. 

“ It is very odd that there cannot be a bed big 
enough for me and my dog. I am an invalid, and 
I ought to have what I want.” 

So The Sweep remained as his bedfellow. 

The Sweep also played the part of the last straw 
in the drama of Jemima’s life ; for Leonard would 
allow no one but his own dear nurse to wash his 
own dear dog ; and odd hours, in which Jemima 
might have snatched a little rest and relaxation, 
were spent by her in getting the big dog’s still 
lanky legs into a tub, and keeping him there, and 
washing him, and drying and combing him into fit 
condition to spring back on to Leonard’s coverlet 
when that imperious little invalid called for him. 

It was a touching manifestation of the dog’s in- 
telligence that he learned with the utmost care to 
avoid jostling or hurting the poor suffering little 
body of his master. 

Leonard’s fourth slave was his father. 

But the master of the house had no faculty for 
nursing, and was by no means possessed of the 
patience needed to persuade Leonard for his good. 
So he could only be with the child when he was fit 


70 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


to be read or played to, and later on, when he was 
able to be out of doors. And at times he went 
away out of sight of his son’s sufferings, and tried to 
stifle the remembrance of a calamity and disap- 
pointment, whose bitterness his own heart alone 
fully knew. 

After the lapse of nearly two years Leonard sud- 
denly asked to be taken home. He was tired of 
the shore, and wanted to see if The Sweep remem- 
bered the park. He wanted to see if Uncle Rupert 
would look surprised to see him going about in a 
wheel-chair. He wanted to go to the camp again, 
now the doctor said he might have drives, and see 
if O’Reilly was alive still, and his uncle and his 
aunt and his cousin. He wanted father to play to 
him on their own organ, their very own organ, 
and — no thank you! — he did not want any other 
music now. 

He hated this nasty place and wanted to go 
home. If he was going to live he wanted to live 
there, and if he was going to die he wanted to die 
there, and have his funeral his own way, if they 
knew a general and could borrow a gun-carriage 
and a band. 

He didn’t want to eat or to drink, or to go to 
sleep, or to take his medicine, or to go out and send 
The Sweep into the sea, or to be read to or played 
to ; he wanted to go home — home — home I 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE . 


71 


The upshot of which was, that before his parents 
had time to put into words the idea that the agoniz- 
ing associations of Asholt were still quite unendura- 
ble, they found themselves congratulating each 
other on having got Leonard safely home before he 
had cried himself into convulsions over tweny-four 
hours’ delay. 

For a time, being at home seemed to revive him. 
He was in less pain, in better spirits, had more 
appetite, and was out a great deal with his dog and 
his nurse. But he fatigued himself, which made 
him fretful, and he certainly grew more imperious 
every day. 

His whim was to be wheeled into every nook and 
corner of the place, inside and out, and to show 
them to The Sweep. And who could have had the 
heart to refuse him anything in the face of that 
dread affliction which had so changed him amid the 
unchanged surroundings of his old home ? 

Jemima led the life of a prisoner on the tread- 
mill. When she wasn’t pushing him about she was 
going errands for him, fetching and carrying. She 
was “ never off her feet.” 

He moved about a little now on crutches, though 
he had not strength to be very active with them, as 
some cripples are. But they became ready instru- 
ments of his impatience to thump the floor with 


72 


THE STOUT OF A SHORT LIFE. 


one end, and not infrequently to strike those who 
offended him with the other. 

His face was little less beautiful than of old, but 
it looked wan and weird ; and his beauty was often 
marred by what is more destructive of beauty even 
than sickness — the pinched lines of peevishness and 
ill-temper. He suffered less, but he looked more 
unhappy, was more difficult to please, and more im- 
patient with all efforts to please him. But then, 
though nothing is truer than that patience is its 
own reward, it has to be learned first. And, with 
children, what has to be learned must be taught. 

To this point Lady Jane’s meditations brought 
her one day as she paced up and down her own 
morning-room, and stood before the window which 
looked down where the elm-trees made long 
shadows on the grass ; for the sun was declining, 
greatly to Jemima’s relief, who had been toiling in 
Leonard’s service through the hottest hours of a 
summer day. 

Lady Jane had a tender conscience, and just now 
it was a ver}^ uneasy one. She was one of those some- 
what rare souls who are by nature absolutely true. 
Not so much with elaborate avoidance of lying, or 
an aggressive candor, as straight-minded, single- 
eyed, clear-headed, and pure-hearted; a soul to 
which the truth and reality of things, and the fac- 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 73 

in g of things, came as naturally as the sham of them 
and the blinking of them comes to others. 

When such a nature has strong affections it is no 
light matter if love and duty come into conflict. 
They were in conflict now, and the mother’s heart 
was pierced with a two-edged sword. For if she 
truly believed what she believed, her duty toward 
Leonard was not only that of a tender mother to 
a suffering child, but the duty of one soul to another 
soul, whose responsibilities no man might deliver 
him from, nor make agreement unto God that he 
should be quit of them. 

And if the disabling of his body did not stop the 
developing, one way or another, of his mind ; if to 
learn fortitude and patience under his pains was not 
only his highest duty but his best chance of happi- 
ness ; then, if she failed to teach him these, of what 
profit was it that she would willingly have endured 
all his sufferings ten times over that life might be 
all sunshine for him ? 

And deep down in her truthful soul another 
thought rankled. No one but herself knew how the 
pride of her heart had been stirred by Leonard’s 
love for soldiers, his brave ambitions, the high 
spirit and heroic instincts which he inherited from a 
long line of gallant men and noble women. Had her 
pride been a sham ? Did she only care for the couy- 


74 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


age of the battle-field? Was she willing that her 
son should be a coward, because it was not the 
trumpet’s sound that summoned him to fortitude ? 
She had strung her heart to the thought that, like 
many a mother of her race, she might live to gird 
on his sword ; should she fail to help him to carry 
his cross ? 

At this point a cry came from below the window, 
and looking out she saw Leonard, beside himself 
with passion, raining blows like hail with his crutch 
upon poor Jemima; The Sweep watching matters 
nervously from under a garden seat. 

Leonard had been irritable all day, and this was 
the second serious outbreak. The first had sent the 
master of the house to town with a deeply-knitted 
brow. 

Vexed at being thwarted in some light matter, 
when he was sitting in his wheel-chair by the side 
of his father in the library, he had seized a sheaf of 
papers tied together with amber-colored ribbon, and 
had torn them to shreds. It was a fair copy of the 
first two cantos of “ The Soul’s Satiety,” a poem on 
which the master of the house had been engaged 
for some years. He had not touched it in Scotland, 
and was now beginning to work at it again. He 
could not scold his crippled child, but*, he had gone up 
to London in a far from comfortable mood. 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


75 


And now Leonard was banging poor Jemima with 
his crutches ! Lady Jane felt that her conscience 
had not roused her an hour too soon. 

The master of the house dined in town, and 
Leonard had tea with his mother in her very own 
room ; and The Sweep had tea there too. 

And when the old elms looked black against the 
primrose-colored sky, and it had been Leonard’s bed- 
time for half an hour past, the three were together 
still. 


“ I beg your pardon, Jemima, I am very sorry, 
and I’ll never do so any more. I didn’t want to beg 
your pardon, before, because I was naughty, and 
because you trod on my Sweep’s foot. But I beg 
your pardon, now, because I am good — at least I am 
better, and I am going to try to be good.” 

Leonard’s voice was as clear as ever, and his man- 
ner as direct and forcible. Thus he contrived to say 
so much before Jemima burst in (she was putting 
him to bed). 

“My lamb! my pretty; You’re always 
good ” 

“ Don’t tell stories, Jemima ; and please don’t con- 
tradict me, for it makes me cross ; and if I am cross 
I can’t be good ; and if I am not good all to-morrow 


76 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


I am not to be allowed to go downstairs after dinner. 
And there’s a Y. C. coming to dinner, and I do 
want to see him more than I want anything else in 
all the world.” 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


77 


CHAPTER VII. 

“ What is there in the world to distinguish virtues from 
dishonor, or that can make anything rewardable, but the 
labor and the danger, the pain and the difficulty ? ” — 
Jeremy Taylor. 

The V. C. did not look like a bloodthirsty 
warrior. He had a smooth, oval, olivart face, and 
dreamy eyes. He was not very big, and he was 
absolutely unpretending. He was a young man, 
and only by the courtesy of his manners, escaped 
the imputation of being a shy young man. 

Before the campaign in which he won his cross 
he was most distinctively known in society as hav- 
ing a very beautiful voice and a very charming way 
of singing, and yet as giving himself no airs on the 
subject of an accomplishment which makes some 
men almost intolerable by their fellow-men. 

He was a favorite with ladies on several accounts, 
large and small. Among the latter was his fas- 
tidious choice in the words of the songs he sang, 
and sang with a rare fineness of enunciation. 


78 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


It is not always safe to believe that a singer 
means what he sings : but if he sing very noble 
words with justness and felicity, the ear rarely 
refuses to flatter itself that it is learning some of 
the secrets of a noble heart. 

Upon a silence that could be felt the last notes of 
such a song had just fallen. The Y. C.’s lips were 
closed, and those of the master of the house (who 
had been accompanying him) were still parted with 
a smile of approval, when the wheels of his chair 
and some little fuss at the drawing-room door an- 
nounced that Leonard had come to claim his 
mother’s promise. And when Lady Jane rose and 
went to meet him, the Y. C. followed her. 

“ There is my boy, of whom I told you. Leonard, 
this is the gentleman you have wished so much 
to see.” 

The Y. C., who sang so easily, was not a ready 
speaker, and the sight of Leonard took him by sur- 
prise, and kept him silent. He had been prepared 
to pity and be good-natured to a lame child who 
had a whim to see him ; but not for this vision of 
rare beauty, beautifully dressed, with crippled limbs 
lapped in Eastern embroideries by his color-loving 
father, and whose wan face and wonderful eyes 
were lambent with an intelligence so eager and so 
wistful, that the creature looked less like a morsel 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


79 


of suffering humanity than like a soul fretted by the 
brief detention of an all-but broken chain. 

“ How do you do, Y. C. ? I am very glad to see 
you. I wanted to see you more than anything in 
the world. I hope you don’t mind seeing me 
because I have been a coward, for I mean to be 
brave now ; and that is why I wanted to see you so 
much, because you are such a very brave man. The 
reason I was a coward was partly with being so 
cross when my back hurts, but particularly with 
hitting Jemima with my crutches, for no one but a 
coward strikes a woman. She trod on my dog’s 
toes. This is my dog. Please pat him ; he would 
like to be patted by a Y. C. He is called The 
Sweep because he is black. He lives with me all 
along. I have hit him , but I hope I shall not be 
naughty again any more. I wanted to grow up 
into a brave soldier, but I don’t think, perhaps, 
that I ever can now ; but mother says I can be a 
brave cripple. I would rather be a brave soldier, 
but I’m going to try to be a brave cripple. Jemima 
says there’s no saying what you can do till you try. 
Please show me your Yictoria cross.” 

“ It’s on my tunic, and that’s in my quarters in 
camp. I’m so sorry.” 

“ So am I. I knew you lived in camp. I like 
the camp, and I want you to tell me about your 


so 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


hut. Do you know my uncle, Colonel Jones? Do 
you know my aunt, Mrs. J ones ? And my cousin, 
Mr. Jones? Do you know a very nice Irishman, 
with one good-conduct stripe, called O’Reilly ? Do 
you know my cousin Alan in the Highlanders ? But 
I believe he has gone away. I have so many things 
I want to ask you, and oh ! — those ladies are coming 
after us ! They want to take you away. Look at 
that ugly old thing with a hook-nose and an eye- 
glass, and a lace shawl, and a green dress ; she’s 
just like the poll parrot in the housekeeper’s room. 
But she’s looking at you. Mother ! Mother dear ! 
Don’t let them take him away. You did promise 
me, you know you did, that if I was good all to- 
day I should talk to the Y. C. I can’t talk to him 
if I can’t have him all to myself. Do let us go into 
the library, and be all to ourselves. Do keep those 
women away, particularly the poll parrot. Oh, I 
hope I sha’n’t be naughty ! I do feel so impatient ! 
I was good, you know I was. Why doesn’t James 
come and show my friend into the library and carry 
me out of my chair ? ” 

“Let me carry you, little friend, and we’ll run 
away together, and the company will say, 4 There 
goes a Y. C. running away from a Poll Parrot in a 
lace shawl ! ’ ” 

44 Ha! ha! You are nice and funny. But can 


THE STOUT OF A SHORT LIFE. 


81 


you carry me ? Take off this thing ! Did you ever 
carry anybody that had been hurt ? ” 

“ Yes, several people — much bigger than you.” 

“ Men ? ” 

“Men” 

“ Men hurt like me, or wounded in battle ? ” 

“ Wounded in battle.” 

“ Poor things ! Did they die ? ” 

“ Some_of them.” 

“ I shall die pretty soon, I believe. I meant to die 
young, but more grown-up than this, and in battle. 
About your age, I think. How old are you ? ” 

“ I shall be twenty-five in October.” 

“ That’s rather old. I meant about Uncle Kupert’s 
age. He died in battle. He was seventeen. You 
carry very comfortably. Now we’re safe ! Put me 
on the yellow sofa, please. I want all the cushions, 
because of my back. It’s because of my back, you 
know, that I can’t grow up into a soldier. I don’t 
think I possibly can. Soldiers do have to have such 
very straight backs, and Jemima thinks mine will 
never be straight again ‘ on this side the grave.’ So 
I’ve got to try and be brave as I am ; and that’s why 
I wanted to see you. Do you mind my talking 
rather more than you ? I have so very much to say, 
and I’ve only a quarter of an hour, because of its 
being long past my bedtime, and a good lot of 
that has gone.” 


82 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE 


“ Please talk and let me listen.” 

“ Thank you. Pat The Sweep again, please. He 
thinks we’re neglecting him. That’s why he gets 
up and knocks you with his head.” 

“ Poor Sweep ! Poor old dog ! ” 

“Thank you. How should you think that if I 
am very good, and not cross about a lot of pain in 
my back and my head — really a good lot — that that 
would count up to be as brave as having one wound 
if I’d been a soldier.” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ Mother says it would, and I think it might. 
Hot a very big wound, of course, but a poke with a 
spear, or something of that sort. It is very bad 
sometimes, particularly when it keeps you awake at 
night.” 

“ My little friend, that would count for lying out 
all night wounded on the field when the battle’s 
over. Soldiers are not always fighting.” 

“ Did you ever lie out for a night on a battle- 
field?” 

“Yes, once.” 

“ Did the night seem very long ? ” 

“ Yery long, and we were very thirsty.” 

“ So am I sometimes, but I have barley-water 
and lemons by my bed, and jelly, and lots of things. 
You’d no barley water had you? ” 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


83 


“ No.” 

“Nothing ? ” 

“Nothing till the rain fell, then we sucked our 
clothes.” 

“ It would take a lot of my bad nights to count 
up to that ! But 1 think when I’m ill in bed I 
might count that like being a soldier in hospital ? ” 

“ Of course.” 

“ I thought — no matter how good I got to be — 
nothing could ever count up to be as brave as a real 
battle, leading your men on and fighting for your 
country, though you know you may be killed any 
minute. But mother says, if I could try very hard,- 
and think of poor Jemima as well as myself, and 
keep brave in spite of feeling miserable, that then 
(particularly as I shan’t be very long before I do 
die) it would be as good as if I’d lived to be as old 
as Uncle Rupert, and fought bravely when the 
battle was against me, and cheered on my men, 
though I knew I could never come out of it alive. 
Do you think it could count up to that? Bo you f 
Oh, do answer me, and don’t stroke my head! 
I get so impatient. You’ve been in battles — do 
you ? ” 

“ I do, I do.” 

“ You’re a Y. C., and you ought to know. I sup- 
pose nothing — not even if I could be good always, 


84 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


from this minute right away till I die — nothing 
could ever count up to the courage of a Y. C.? ” 

“ God knows it could, a thousand times over ! ” 

“ Where are you going ? Please don’t go. Look 
at me. They’re not going to chop the queen’s head 
off, are they ? ” 

“ Heaven forbid ! What are you thinking 
about ? ” 

“ Why because Look at me again. Ah ! 

you’ve winked it away, but your eyes were full of 
tears; and the only other brave man I ever 
heard of crying was Uncle Eupert, and that was 
because he knew they were going to chop the poor 
king’s head off.” 

“ That was enough to make anybody cry.” 

“ I know it was. But do you know now, when 
I’m wheeling about in my chair and playing with 
him, and he looks at me wherever I go ; sometimes 
for a bit I forget about the king, and I fancy he is 
sorry for me. Sorry, I mean, that I can’t jump 
about, and creep under the table. Under the table 
was the only place where I could get out of the 
sight of his eyes. Oh, dear ! there’s Jemima.” 

“ But you are going to be good ? ” 

“ I know I am. And I’m going to do lessons 
again. I did a little French this morning — a story # 
Mother did most of it ; but I know what the 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


85 


French officer called the poor old French soldier 
when he went to see him in a hospital.” 

“What?” 

“ Mon brave. That means ‘my brave fellow.’ 
A nice name wasn’t it ? ” 

“ Very nice. Here’s Jemima.” 

“I’m coming, Jemima. I’m not going to be 
naughty ; but you may go back to the chair, for 
this officer will carry me. He carries so comfort- 
ably. Come along, my Sweep. Thank you so 
much. You have put me in beautifully. Kiss me, 
please. Good night, Y. C.” 

“ Good night, mon brave” 


86 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“ I am a man of no strength at all of body, nor yet of 
mind : but would, if I could, though I can but crawl, spend 
my life in the pilgrims’ way. When I came at the gate that 
is at the head of the way, the lord of that place did entertain 
me freely. . . . gave me such things that were necessary for 
my journey, and bid me hope to the end .... Other brunts 
I also look for ; but this I have resolved on, to wit, to run 
when I can, to go when I cannot run, and to creep when I 
cannot go. As to the main, I thank Him that loves me, I am 
fixed ; my way is before me, my mind is beyond the river that 
has no bridge, though I am as you see.” 

“ And behold — Mr. Ready -to-halt came by with his crutches 
in his hand, and he was also going on Pilgrimage.” 

— Buny art's Pilgrim'' s Progress. 

And if we tie it with the amber colored ribbon, 
then every time I have it out to put in a new Poor 
Thing, I shall remember how very naughty I was, 
and how I spoiled your poetry.” 

“Then we’ll certainly tie it with something else,” 
said the master of the house, and he jerked away 
the ribbon with a gesture as decisive as his words. 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


87 


“ Let bygones be bygones. If I forget it, you 
needn’t remember it ! ” • 

“ Oh, but, indeed, I ought to remember it ; and I 
do think I better had — to remind myself never, 
never to be so naughty again ! ” 

“ Your mother’s own son ! ” muttered the master 
of the house ; and he added aloud : “Well, I forbid 
you to remember it — so there ! It’ll be naughty if 
you do. Here’s some red ribbon. That should 
please you, as you’re so fond of soldiers.” 

Leonard and his father were seated side by side 
at a table in the library. The dog lay at their 
feet. 

They were very busy, the master of the house 
working under Leonard’s direction, who, issuing his 
orders from his wheel-chair, was so full of anxiety 
and importance, that when Lady Jane opened the 
library-door he knitted his brow and put up one 
thin little hand, in a comically old-fashioned man- 
ner, to deprecate interruption. 

“Don’t make any disturbance, mother dear, if 
you please. Father and I are very much engaged.” 

“ Don’t you think, Len, it would be kind to let 
poor mother see what we are doing and tell her 
about it ? ” 

Leonard pondered an instant. 

“ Well — I don’t mind.” 


88 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


Then, as his mother’s arm came round him, he 
added, impetuously: 

“Yes, I should like to. You can show, father 
dear, and Til do all the explaining. 

The master of the house displayed some sheets of 
paper, tied with ribbon, which already contained a 
good deal of his handiwork, including a finely il- 
luminated capital L on the title-page. 

“ It is to be called the Book of Poor Things, 
mother dear. We’re doing it in bits first ; then it 
will be bound. It’s a collection — a collection of 
Poor Things who’ ve been hurt, like me ; or blind like 
the organ-tuner ; or had their heads — no, not their 
heads, they couldn’t go on doing things after that — 
had their legs or their arms chopped off in battle, 
and are very good and brave about it, and manage 
very, very nearly as well as people who have got 
nothing the matter with them. Father doesn’t 
think Poor Things is a good name. He wanted to 
call it Masters of Fate, because of some poetry. 
What was it, father ? ” 

“ Man is Man and Master of his Fate,” quoted the 
master of the house. 

“ Yes, that’s it. But I don’t understand it so well 
as Poor Things. They are poor things, you know, 
and of course we shall only put in brave Poor 
Things ; not cowardly Poor Things. It was all my 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


89 


idea only father is doing the ruling, and printing, 
and illuminating for me. I thought of it when the 
organ-tuner was here.” 

“ The organ-tuner ? ” 

“Yes, I heard the organ, and I made James carry 
me in, and put me in the armchair close to the 
organ. And the tuner was tuning, and he looked 
round, and James said, 4 It’s the young gentleman,’ 
and the tuner said, 4 Good morning, sir,’ and I said, 
4 Good morning, tuner ; go on tuning, please, for I 
want to see you do it.’ And he went on ; and he 
dropped a tin thing, like a big extinguisher, on to 
the floor ; and he got down to look for it, and he 
felt about in such a funny way that I burst out 
laughing. I didn’t mean to be rude ; I couldn’t help 
it. And I said, 4 Can’t you see it? It’s just under 
the table.’ And he said, 4 1 can’t see anything, sir ; 
I’m stone blind.’ And he said, perhaps I would be 
kind enough to give it him. And I said I was very 
sorry, but I hadn’t got my crutches, and so I 
couldn’t get out of my chair without some one to 
help me. And he was so awfully sorry for me, you 
can’t think ! He said he didn’t know I was more 
afflicted than he was ; but I was awfully sorry for 
him, for I’ve tried shutting my eyes ; and you can 
bear it just a minute, but then you must open them 
to see again. And I said, 4 How can you do any- 


90 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


thing when yon see nothing but blackness all along V 
And he says he can do well enough as long as he’s 
spared the use of his limbs to earn his own liveli- 
hood. And I said, ‘ Are there any more blind men, 
do you think, that earn their own livelihood? I 
wish I could earn mine ! ’ And he said, ‘ There are 
a good many blind tuners, sir.’ And I said, ‘ Go 
on tuning, please ; I like to hear you do it.’ And 
he went on, and I did like him so much. Do you 
know the blind tuner, mother dear? And don’t 
you like him very much ? I think he is just what 
you think very good, and I think Y. C. would think 
it nearly as brave as a battle to be afflicted and go 
on earning your own livelihood when you can see 
nothing but blackness all along. Poor man ! ” 

“ I do think it very good of him, my darling, and 
very brave.” 

“ I knew you would. And then I thought per- 
haps there are lots of brave afflicted people — poor 
things ! and perhaps there never was anybody but 
me who wasn’t. And 1^ wished I knew their names 
and I asked the tuner his name, and he told me. 
And then I thought of my book, for a good idea — a 
collection, you know. And I thought perhaps, by 
degrees, I might collect three hundred and sixty -five 
Poor Things, all brave. And so I am making 
father rule it like his diary, and we’ve got the 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE • * 91 

tuner’s name down for the first of January ; and 
if you can think of anybody else you must tell me, 
and if I think they’re afflicted enough and brave 
enough, I’ll put them in. But I shall have to be 
rather particular, for we don’t want to fill up too 
fast. Now, father, I’ve done the explaining, so you 
can show your part. Look, mother, hasn’t he ruled 
it well ? There’s only one tiny mess, and it was The 
Sweep shaking the table with getting up to be 
patted.” 

“ He has ruled it beautifully. But what a hand- 
some L ! ” 

“Oh, I forget! Wait a minute, father, the ex- 
plaining isn’t quite finished. What do you think 
that L stands for, mother dear ? ” 

“ For Leonard, I suppose.” 

“No, No! What fun! You’re quite wrong. 
Guess again.” 

“ Is it not the tuner’s name ? ” 

“Oh, no! He’s in the first of January — I told 
you so. And in plain printing. Father really 
couldn’t illuminate three hundred and sixty-five 
poor things ! ” 

“ Of course he couldnt.’ It was silly of me to 
think so.” 

“ Do you give it up ? ” 

“ I must. I cannot guess.” 


92 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


“ It’s the beginning of “ Lostus sorte mea Ah, 
you know now ! You ought to have guessed with- 
out my telling you. Do you remember ? I remem- 
ber, and I mean to remember. I told Jemima that 
very night. I said, ‘ It means, Happy with my fate, 
and in our family we have to be happy with it, 
whatever sort of a one it is.’ For you told me so. 
And I told the tuner, and he liked hearing about 
it very much. And then he went on tuning, and he 
smiled so when he was listening to the notes, I 
thought he looked very happy ; so I asked him, and 
he said, Yes, he was always happy when he was 
meddling with a musical instrument. But I thought 
most likely all brave poor things are happy with 
their fate, even if they can’t tune ; and I asked 
father, and he said, ‘Yes,’ and so we are putting it 
into my collection — partly for that, and partly, 
when the coat-of-arms is done, to show that the 
book belongs to me. How, father dear, the ex- 
plaining is really quite finished this time, and you 
may do all the rest of the show-off yourself ! ” 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


93 


CHAPTER IX. 

“ St. George ! a stirring life they lead, 

That have such neighbors near. ” 

— Marmion. 

Oh, J emima ! Jemima ! I know yon are very 
kind, and I do mean not to be impatient ; but either 
you’re telling stories or you’re talking nonsense, 
and that’s a fact. How can you say that that blue 
stuff is a beautiful match, and will wash the exact 
color, and that you’re sure I shall like it when it’s 
made up with a cord and tassels, when it’s not the 
blue I want, and when you know the men in hos- 
pital haven’t any tassels to their dressing-gowns at 
all ! You’re as bad as that horrid shopman who 
made me so angry. If I had not been obliged to be 
good, I should have liked to hit him hard with my 
crutch, when he kept on saying he knew I should 
prefer a shawl-pattern lined with crimson, if I 
would let him send one. Oh, here comes father ! 
JNow, that’s right; he’ll know. Father dear, is this 
blue pattern the same color as that ? ” 


94 


THE STOUT OF A SHORT LIFE. 


“ Certainly not. But what’s the matter, my 
child?” 

“It’s about my dressing-gown ; and I do get so 
tired about it, because people will talk nonsense, 
and won’t speak the truth, and won’t believe I 
know what I want myself. Now, I’ll tell you what 
I want. Do you know the Hospital Lines ? ” 

“ In the camp ? Yes.” 

“And you’ve seen all the invalids walking about 
in blue dressing-gowns and little red ties ? ” 

“ Yes. Charming bits of color.” 

“ Hurrah ! that’s just it ! Now, father dear, if 
you wanted a dressing-gown exactly like that — 
would you have one made of this ? ” 

“ Not if I knew it ! Crude, coarse, staring — 
please don’t wave it in front of my eyes, unless you 
want to make me feel like a bull with a red rag 
before him ! ” 

“ Oh, father dear, you are sensible ! (Jemima, 
throw this pattern away, please !) But you’d have 
felt far worse if you’d seen the shawl pattern lined 
with crimson. Oh, I do wish I could have been a 
bull that wasn’t obliged to be Icetus for half a 
minute, to give that shopman just one toss ! But I 
believe the best way to do will be as O’Reilly says 
— get Uncle Henry to buy me a real one out of 
store, and have it made smaller for me. And I 
should like it 4 out of store.’ ” 


THE 8T0RT OF A SHORT LIFE. 


95 


From this conversation it will be seen that 
Leonard’s military bias knew no change. Had it 
been less strong it could only have served 
to intensify the pain of the heartbreaking associa- 
tions which anything connected with the troops 
now naturally raised in his parent’s minds. But it 
was a sore subject that fairly healed itself. 

The camp had proved a more cruel neighbor than 
the master of the house had ever imagined in his 
forebodings; but it also proved a friend. For if 
the high, ambitious spirit, the ardent imagination, 
the vigorous will, which fired the boy’s fancy for 
soldiers and soldier-life, had thus led to his calamity, 
they found in that sympathy with men of hardi- 
hood and lives of discipline, not only an interest 
that never failed and that lifted the sufferer out of 
himself, but a constant incentive to those virtues of 
courage and patience for which he struggled with 
touching conscientiousness. 

Then, without disparagement to the earnestness 
of his efforts to be good, it will be well believed 
that his parents did their best to make goodness 
easy to him. His vigorous individuality still 
swayed the plans of the household, and these came 
to be regulated by those of the camp to a degree 
which half annoyed and half amused its master. 

The Asholt Gazette was delivered as regularly as 


S6 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


the Times ; but on special occasions, the arrange* 
ments for which were only known the night before, 
O’Reilly or some other orderly, might be seen 
wending his way up the elm avenue by breakfast 
time, “with Colonel Jones’ compliments, and the 
orders of the day for the young gentleman.” And 
so many were the military displays at which 
Leonard contrived to be present, that the associa- 
tions of pleasure and alleviation with parades and 
manoeuvers came at last almost to blot out the 
associations of pain connected with that fatal field 
day. 

He drove about a great deal, either among air- 
cushions in the big carriage or in a sort of perambu- 
lator of his own, which was all too easily pushed by 
any one, and by the side of which The Sweep walked 
slowly and contentedly, stopping when Leonard 
stopped, wagging his tail when Leonard spoke, and 
keeping sympathetic step to the invalid’s pace with 
four sinewy black legs, which were young enough 
and strong enough to have ranged for miles over 
the heather hills and never felt fatigue. A true 
dog friend ! 

What the master of the house pleasantly called, 
“ Our Military Mania,” seemed to have reached its 
climax during certain July manoeuvers of the regi- 
ments stationed at Asholt, and of additional troops 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


97 


who lay out under canvas in the surrounding 
country. 

Into this mimic campaign Leonard threw himself 
heart and soul. His camp friends furnished him 
with early information of the plans for each day, so 
far as the generals of the respective forces allowed 
them to get wind, and with an energy that defied 
his disabilities he drove about after “the armies,” 
and then scrambled on his crutches to points of van- 
tage where the carriage could not go. 

And the master of the house went with him. 

The house itself seemed soldier-bewitched. Or- 
derlies were as plentiful as rooks among the elm 
trees. The staff clattered in and out, and had 
luncheon at unusual hours, and strewed the cedar- 
wood hall with swords and cocked hats, and made 
low bows over Lady Jane’s hand, and rode away 
among the trees. 

These were weeks of pleasure and enthusiasm for 
Leonard, and of not less delight for The Sweep ; but 
they were followed by an illness. 

That Leonard bore his sufferings better helped to 
conceal the fact that they undoubtedly increased; 
and he over-fatigued himself and got a chill, and 
had to go to bed, and took The Sweep to bed with 
him. 

And it was when he could play at no “ soldier- 


98 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


game,” except that of “ being in hospital,” 
that he made up his mind to have a blue dressing- 
gown of regulation color and pattern, and met with 
the difficulties aforesaid in carrying out his whim. 


2 HE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE . 


99 


CHAPTER X. 

“ Fills the room up of my absent child, 

Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me ; 

Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, 
Remembers me of all his gracious parts, 

Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form.” 

— King John , Act iii. 

Long years after they were written, a bundle of 
letters lay in the drawer of a cabinet in Lady Jane’s 
morning-room, carefully kept, each in its own 
envelope, and every envelope stamped with the 
post mark of Asholt camp. 

They were in Leonard’s handwriting. A childish 
hand, though good for his age, but round and clear 
as his own speech. 

After much coaxing and considering, and after 
consulting with the doctors, Leonard had been 
allowed to visit the barrack master and his wife. 
After his illness he was taken to the seaside, which 
he liked so little that he was bribed to stay there by 
the promise that, if the doctor would allow it, he 


L.ofC. 


100 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


should, on his return, have the desire of his heart, 
and be permitted to live for a time “ in camp,” and 
sleep in a hut. 

’ The doctor gave leave. Small quarters would 
neither mar nor mend an injured spine ; and if he 
felt the lack of space and luxuries to which he was 
accustomed, he would then be content to return 
home. 

The barrack master’s hut only boasted one spare 
bed-chamber for visitors, and when Leonard and his 
dog were in it there was not much elbow-room. A 
sort of cupboard was appropriated for the use of 
Jemima, and Lady Jane drove constantly into camp 
to see her son. Meanwhile he proved a very good 
correspondent, as his letters will show for them- 
selves. 


LETTER I. 

“ Barrack Master’s Hut. 

“ The Camp, Asholt. 

" My dear, dear mother : 

“I hope you are quite well and father also. I am 
very happy and so is The Sweep. He tried sleeping 
on my bed last night, but there was not room, 
though I gave him as much as ever I could. So he 
slept on the floor. It is a camp bed and folds up if 
you want it to. We have nothing like it. It be- 
longed to a real general. The general is dead. 
Uncle Henry bought it at his sale. You always 


THE ST0R7 OF A SHORT LIFE. 


101 


have a sale if you die, and your brother-officers buy 
your things to pay your debts. Sometimes you get 
them very cheap. 1 mean the things. 

“ The drawers fold up, too. I mean the chest of 
drawers, and so does the wash-hand-stand. It goes 
into the corner, and takes up very little room. 
There couldn’t be a bigger one, or the door would 
not open — the one that leads into the kitchen. The 
other door leads into a passage. I like having the 
kitchen next me. You can hear everything. You 
can hear O’Reilly come in the morning, and I call 
to him to open my door, and he says, ‘Yes, sir,’ and 
opens it, and lets The Sweep out for a run, and takes 
my boots. And you can hear the tap of the boiler 
running with your hot water before she brings it, 
and you can smell the bacon frying for breakfast. 

“Aunt Adelaide was afraid I should not like being 
woke up so early, but I do. I waked a good many 
times. First with the gun. It’s like a very short 
thunder and shakes you. And then the bugles play. 
Father would like them / And then right away in 
the distance — trumpets. And the air comes in so 
fresh at the window. And you pull up the clothes, 
if they’ve fallen off you, and go to sleep again. 
Mine had all fallen off, except the sheet, and The 
Sweep was lying on them. Wasn’t it clever of him 
to have found them in the dark? If I can’t keep 
them on, I’m going to have campaigning blankets ; 
they are sewed up like a bag and you get into 
them. 

“ What do you think I found on my coverlet when 
I went to bed ? A real, proper, blue dressing gown 
and a crimson tie ! It came out of store and Aunt 
Adelaide made it smaller herself. Wasn’t it kind of 
her? 

“ I have got it on now. Presently I am going to 
dress properly and O’Reilly is going to wheel me 


102 


THE STOUT OF A SHORT LIFE. 


down to the stores. It will be great fun. My 
cough has been pretty bad, but it’s no worse than it 
was at home. 

“ There’s a soldier come for the letters, and they 
are obliged to be ready. 

“ I am, your loving and dutiful son, 

“ Leonard. 

“ P. S. — Uncle Henry says his father was very 
old-fashioned, and he always liked him to put ‘ Your 
dutiful son,’ so I put it to you. 

“ All these crosses mean kisses, Jemima told me.” 

LETTEK II. 

“ . . . I went to church yesterday, though it 

was only Tuesday. I need not have gone unless I 
liked, but I liked. There is service every evening 
in the Iron Church, and Aunt Adelaide goes and so 
do I, and sometimes Uncle Henry. There are not 
very many people go, but the } 7 behave very well, 
what there are. You can’t tell what the officers 
belong to in the afternoon because they are in plain 
clothes ; but Aunt Adelaide thinks they were royal 
engineers, except one commissariat one and an 
A.D.C., and the colonel of a regiment that marched 
in last week. You can’t tell what the ladies belong 
to unless you know them. 

“ You can always tell the men. Some were bar- 
rack sergeants and some were sappers, and there 
were two gunners, and an army hospital corps, and 
a cavalry corporal who came all the way from the 
barracks, and sat near the door, and said very long 
prayers to himself at the end. And there were some 
schoolmasters, and a man with gray hair and no 
uniform, who mends the roofs and teaches in the 
Sunday school, and I forget the rest. Most of the 
choir are sappers and commissariat men, and the 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


103 


boys are soldiers’ sons. The sappers and commis- 
sariat belong to our brigade. 

“ There is no sexton to our church. He’s a church 
orderly. He has put me a kind of a back in the 
corner of one of the officers’ seats, to make me com- 
fortable in church, and a very high footstool. I 
mean to go every day, and as often as I can on Sun- 
days, without getting too much tired. 

“ You can go very often on Sunday mornings if 
you want to They begin at eight o’clock and go 
on till luncheon. There’s a fresh band, and a fresh 
chaplain, and a fresh sermon, and a fresh congrega- 
tion every time. Those are parade services. The 
others are voluntary services, and I thought that 
meant for the volunteers ; but O’Reilly laughed and 
said, i Ho, it only means that there’s no occasion to 
go to them at all ’ — he means unless you like. But 
then I do like. There’s no sermon on week days. 
Uncle Henry is very glad and so am I. I think it 
might make my back ache. 

“ I am afraid, dear mother, that you won’t be able 
to understand all I write to you from the camp ; 
but if you don’t you must ask me and I’ll explain. 

“When I say our quarters , remember I mean our 
hut ; and when I say rations it means bread and 
meat, and I’m not quite sure if it means coals and 
candles as well. But I think I’ll make you a dic- 
tionary if I can get a ruled book from the canteen. 
It would make this letter too much to go for a 
penny if I put all the words in I know. Cousin 
George tells me them when he comes in after mess. 
He told me the camp name for Iron Church is Tin 
Tabernacle ; but Aunt Adelaide says it’s not, and 
I’m not to call it so, so I don’t. But that’s what he 
says. 

“I like Cousin George very much. I like his uni- 
form. He is very thin, particularly round the waist. 

- I 


104 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


Uncle Henry is very stout, particularly round the 
waist. Last night George came in after mess and 
two other officers out of his regiment came too. 
And then another officer came in. And they chaffed 
Uncle Henry, and Uncle Henry doesn’t mind. And 
the other officer said, ‘ Three times round a subal- 
tern — once round a barrack master.’ And so they 
got Uncle Henry’s sword-belt out of his dressing- 
room, and George and his friends stood back to 
back, and Feld up their jackets out of the way, and 
the other officer put the belt right round them, all 
three, and told them not to laugh. And Aunt 
Adelaide said, ‘ Oh ! ’ and 4 You’ll hurt them.’ And 
he said, ‘ Not a bit of it.’ And he buckled it. So 
that shows. It was great fun. 

“ I am, your loving and dutiful son, 

“ Leonard. 


“ P. S. — The other officer is an Irish officer — at 
least, I think so, but I can’t be quite sure, because 
he won’t speak the truth. I said, ‘ You talk rather 
like O’Keilly ; are you an Irish soldier 'i ’ And he 
said 6 I’d the misfortune to be quartered for six 
months in the County Cork, and it was the ruin of 
my French accent.’ So I said, 4 Are you a French- 
man ? ’ and they all laughed, so I don’t know. 

“ P. S. No. 2. — My back has been very bad, but 
Aunt Adelaide says I have been very good. This 
is not meant for swagger, but to let you know. 

Swagger means boasting. If you’re a soldier, 
swagger is the next worst thing to running away.) 

“ P. S. No. 3. — I know another officer now. I 
like him. He is a D. A. Q. M. G. I would let you 
guess that if you could ever find it out, but you 
couldn’t. It means Deputy- Assistant-Quarter-Mas- 
ter-General. He is so grand as you would think ; a 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


105 


plain general is really grander. Uncle Henry says 
so, and he knows.” 


LETTEE III. 

“ . . . I have seen Y. C. I have seen him twice. 
I have seen his cross. The first time was at the 
sports. Aunt Adelaide drove me there in the pony 
carriage. We stopped at the enclosure. The en- 
closure is a rope, with a man taking tickets. The 
sports are inside ; so is the tent, with tea ; so are the 
ladies, in awful ly pretty dresses, and the officers 
walking round them. 

“ There’s great fun outside, at least, I should 
think so. There’s a crowed of people, and booths, 
and a skeleton man. I saw his picture. I should 
like to have seen him, but Aunt Adelaide didn’t 
want to, so I tried to be loetus without. 

“ When we got to the enclosure there w r as a gen- 
tleman taking his ticket, and when he turned round 
he was Y. C. Wasn’t it funny ? So he came back 
and said, ‘ Why, here’s my little friend ! ’ And he 
said, ‘ You must let me carry you.’ And so he did, 
and put me among the ladies. But the ladies got 
him a good deal. He went and talked to lots of 
them, but I tried to be Icetus without him ; and then 
Cousin George came, and lots of others, and then 
the Y. C. came back and showed me things about 
the sports. 

“ Sports are very hard work ; they make you so 
hot and tired; but they are very nice to watch. 
The races were great fun, particularly when they 
fell in the water, and the men in sacks who hop, 
and the blindfolded men with w 7 heelbarrows. Oh, 
they were so funny ! They kept wheeling into 
each other, all except one, and he went wheeling 


106 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


and wheeling right away up the field, all by him- 
self and all wrong ! I did laugh. 

“ But what I liked best were the tent-pegging 
men, and most best of all, the tug-of-war. 

“ The Irish officer did tent-pegging. He has the 
dearest pony you ever saw. He is so fond of it, 
and it is so fond of him. He talks to it in Irish, 
and it understands him. He cut off the Turk’s 
head — not a real Turk, a sham Turk, and not a 
whole one, only the head stuck cn a pole. 

44 The tug-of-war was splendid ! Two sets of 
men pulling at a rope to see which is strongest. 
They did pull ! They pulled so hard, both of them, 
with all their might and main, that we thought it 
must be a drawn battle. But at last one set pulled 
the other over, and then there was such a noise 
that my head ached dreadfully, and the Irish officer 
carried me into the tent and gave me some tea. 
And then we went home. 

“ The next time I saw Y. C. was on Sunday at 
parade service. He is on the staff, and wears a 
cocked hat. He came in with the general and the A. 
D. C., who was at church on Tuesday, and I was 
so glad to see him. 

“After church, everybody went about saying 
4 Good morning,’ and 4 How hot it was in church ! ’ 
and Y. C. helped me with my crutches, and showed 
me his cross. And the general came up and spoke 
to me, and I saw his medals, and he asked how 
you were, and I said, 4 Quite well, thank you.’ And 
then he talked to a lady with some little boys 
dressed like sailors. She said how hot it was in 
church, and he said, 4 1 thought the roof was com- 
ing off with that last hymn.’ And she said, 4 My 
little boys call it the tug-of-war hymn; they are very 
fond of it.’ And he said, 4 The men seem very 
fond of it.’ And he turned round to an officer I 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


107 


didn’t know, and said, 4 They ran away from }mu 
that last verse but one.’ And the officer said, 4 Yes,, 
sir, they always do ; so 1 stop the organ and let 
them have it their own way.’ 

“ I asked Aunt Adelaide, 4 Does that officer play 
the organ? ’ And she said, 4 Yes, and he trains the 
choir. He’s coming in to supper.’ So he came. 
If the officers stay sermon on Sunday evenings, 
they are late for mess. So the chaplain stops after 
prayers, and anybody that likes to go out before 
sermon can. If they stay sermon, they go to sup- 
per with some of the married officers instead of 
dining at mess. 

44 So he came. I liked him awfully. He plays 
like father, only I think he can play more difficult 
things. 

44 He says, 4 tug of-war hymn ’ is the very good 
name for that hymn, because the men are so fond 
of it they all sing, and the ones at the bottom of 
the church ‘drag over ’ the choir and the organ. 

44 He said, 4 I’ve talked till I’m black in the face, 
and all to no purpose. It would try the patience of a 
saint.’ So 1 said, 4 Are you a saint?’ And he 
laughed and said, 4 Ho, I’m afraid not ; I’m only a 
kapellmeister.’ So I call him 4 Kapellmeister.’ I 
do like him. 

44 1 do like the tug-of-war hymn. It begins, 4 The 
Son of God goes forth to war.’ That’s the one. 
But we have it to a tune of our own, on Saints’ 
days. The verse the men tug with is, 4 A noble 
army, men and boys.’ I think they like it, because 
it’s about the army ; and so do I. 

44 1 am, your loving and dutiful son, 

44 Leonard. 

44 P. S. — I call the ones with cocked hats and 
feathers, ‘Cockatoos.’ There was another Cock- 


108 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


atoo who walked away with the general. Not 
very big. About the bigness of the stuffed general 
in the pawnbroker’s window; and I do think he 
had quite as many medals. I wanted to see them. 
I wish I had. He looked at me. He had a very 
gentle face ; but I was afraid of it. Was I a coward? 

“ You remember what these crosses are, don’t 
you ? I told you.” 


LETTER IV. 

“ This is a very short letter. It’s only to ask you 
to send my book of Poor Things by the orderly who 
takes this, unless you are quite sure you are coming 
to see me to-day. 

“ A lot of officers are collecting for me, and 
there’s one in the engineers can print very well, so 
he’ll put them in. 

“ A colonel with only one arm dined here yester- 
day. You can’t think how well he manages, using 
first his knife and then his fork, and talking so 
politely all the time. He has all kinds of dodges, so 
as not to give trouble and do everything for him- 
self. 1 mean to put him in. 

“ I wrote to Cousin Alan, and asked him to 
collect for me. I like writing letters, and I do like 
getting them. Uncle Henry says he hates a lot of 
posts in the day. I hate posts when there’s nothing 
for me. I like all the rest. 

“Cousin Alan wrote back by return. He says 
he can only think of the old chap, whose legs were 
cut off in battle : 


“ ‘ And when his legs were smitten off, 
He fought upon his stumps ! ’” 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


109 


It was very brave, if it’s true. Do you think it is ? 
He did not tell me his name. 

“ Your loving and dutiful son, 

“ Leonard. 

“ P. S. — I am IcBtus sorte mea, and so is The 
Sweep.” 


LETTER Y. 

“ This letter is not about a Poor Thing. It’s about 
a saint — a soldier saint — which I and the chaplain 
think nearly the best kind. His name was Martin, 
he got to be a bishop in the end, but when he first 
enlisted he was only a catechumen. Do you know 
what a catechumen is, dear mother ? Perhaps if 
you’re not quite so high-church as the engineer I 
told you of, who prints so beautifully, you may not 
know. It means when you’ve been born a heathen, 
and are going to be a Christian, only you’ve not 
yet been baptized. The engineer has given me a 
picture of him, St. Martin I mean, and now he has 
printed underneath it, in beautiful thick black 
letters that you can hardly read if you don’t know 
what they are, and the very particular words in red 
‘Martin — yet but a catechumen ! ’ He can illumi- 
nate, too, though not quite so well as father, he is 
very high-church, and I’m high-church too, and so 
is our chaplain, but he is broad as well. The 
engineer thinks he’s rather too broad, but Uncle 
Henry and Aunt Adelaide think he’s quite perfect, 
and so do I, and so does everybody else. He comes 
in sometimes, but not very often because he’s so 
busy. He came the other night because I wanted 
to confess. What I wanted to confess was that I 
had laughed in church. He is a very big man, and 
he has a very big surplice, with a great lot of 


110 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


gathers behind, which makes my engineer very 
angry, because it’s the wrong shape, and he 
preaches splendidly, the chaplain I mean, straight 
out of his head, and when all the soldiers are listen- 
ing he swings his arms about, and the surplice gets 
in his way, and he catches hold of it, and oh ! 
mother dear, I must tell you what it reminded me 
of. When I was very little, and father used to tie 
a knot in his big pocket-handkerchief and put his 
first finger into it to make a head that nodded, and 
wind the rest round his hand, and stick out his 
thumb and another finger for arms, and do the 
‘ Yea-verily-man ’ to amuse you and me. It was 
last Sunday, and a most splendid sermon, but his 
stole got round under his ear, and his sleeves did 
look just like the Yea-verily-man, and I tried not to 
look, and then I caught the Irish officer’s eye and 
he twinkled, and then I laughed, because I remem- 
bered his telling Aunt Adelaide 4 That’s the grandest 
old padre that ever got up into a pulpit, but did ye 
ever see a man get so mixed up with his clothes ? ’ 
I was very sorry when I laughed, so I settled I 
would confess, for my engineer thinks you ought 
always to confess, so when our chaplain came in 
after dinner on Monday, I confessed, but he only 
laughed, till he broke down Aunt Adelaide’s black 
and gold chair. He is too big for it, really. Aunt 
Adelaide never lets Uncle Henry sit on it. So he 
was very sorry, and Aunt Adelaide begged him not 
to mind, and then in came my engineer in war- 
paint (if you look out war-paint in the canteen 
book I gave you, you’ll see what it means). He 
was in war-paint because he was orderly officer for 
the evening, and he’d got his sword under one arm, 
and the picture under the other, and his short 
cloak on to keep it dry, because it was raining. He 
made the frame himself; he can make Oxford 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE, 


iii 


frames quite well, and lie’s going to teach me how 
to. Then I said, ‘Who is it?’ so he told me, and 
now I’m going to tell you, in case you don’t know. 
Well, St. Martin was born in Hungary, in the year 
316. His father and mother were heathens, but 
when he was about my age he made up his mind he 
would be a Christian. His father and mother were 
so afraid of his turning into a monk, that as soon 
as he was old enough they enlisted him in the army, 
hoping that would cure him of ivanting to be a 
Christian, but it didn’t — Martin wanted to be a 
Christian just as much as ever ; still he got interested 
with his work and his comrades, and he dawdled on 
only a catechumen, and didn’t make full profession 
and get baptized. One winter his corps was 
quartered at Amiens, and on a very bitter night, 
near the gates, he saw a half-naked beggar shiver- 
ing with the cold. (I asked my engineer, ‘Was he 
orderly officer for the evening ? ’ but he said, ‘ More 
likely on patrol duty, with some of his comrades. ’ 
However, he says he won’t be sure, for Martin was 
tribune, which is very nearly a colonel, two years 
afterward, he knows.) When Martin saw the 
beggar at the gate, he pulled out his big military 
cloak, and drew his sword, and cut it in half, and 
wrapped half of it round the poor beggar to keep 
him warm. I know you’ll think him very kind, 
but wait a bit, that’s not all. Next night when 
Martin the soldier was asleep he had a vision. Did 
you ever have a vision ? I wish I could ! This was 
Martin’s vision. He saw Christ our Lord in Heaven, 
sitting among the shining hosts, and wearing over 
one shoulder half a military cloak, and as Martin 
saw him he heard him say, ‘ Behold the mantle 
given to Me by Martin — yet but a catechumen ! ’ 
After that vision he didn’t* wait any longer; he was 
baptized at once. 


112 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


44 Mother dear, I’ve told you this quite truthfully, 
but I can’t tell it you so splendidly as my engi- 
neer did, standing with his back to the tire, and 
holding out his cape, and drawing his sword, to 
show me how Martin divided his cloak with the 
beggar. Aunt Adelaide isn’t afraid of swords, she 
is too used to them, but she says she thinks soldiers 
do things in huts they would never think of doing 
in big rooms, just to show how neatly they can 
manage, without hurting anything. The chaplain 
broke the chair, but then he isn’t exactly a soldier, 
and the D. A. Q. M. G. that I told you of, comes in 
sometimes and says, 4 1 beg your pardon, Mrs. 
Jones, but I must’— and puts both his hands on the 
end of the sofa, and lifts his body till he gets his 
legs sticking straight out. They are very long legs, 
and he and the sofa go nearly across the room, but 
he never kicks anything, it’s a kind of athletics ; 
and there’s another officer who comes in at one door 
and Catherine-wheel’s right across to the farthest 
corner, and he is over six foot, too, but they never 
break anything. We do laugh. 

44 1 wish you could have seen my engineer doing 
St. Martin. He had to go directly afterward, and 
then the chaplain came and stood in front of me, on 
the hearthrug, in the firelight, just where my 
engineer had been standing, and he took up the 
picture, and looked at it. So I said, 4 Do you know 
about St. Martin ? ’ and he said he did, and he said, 

4 One of the greatest of those many soldiers of the 
Cross who have also fought under earthly banners.’ 
Then he put down the picture, and got hold of his 
elbow with his hand, as if he was holding his surplice 
out of the way, and said, 4 Great, as well as good, 
for this reason ; he was one of those rare souls to 
whom the counsels of God are clear, not to the 


THE STOUT OF A SHORT LIFE. 


113 


utmost of the times in which he lived — but in ad- 
vance of those times. Such men are not always 
popular, nor even largely successful in their day, but 
the light they hold lightens more generations of 
this naughty world, than the pious tapers of com- 
moner men. You know that Martin the catechu- 
men became Martin the saint — do you know that 
Martin the soldier became Martin the bishop ? — and 
that in an age of credulity and fanaticism, that man 
of God discredited some relics very popular with the 
pious in his diocese, and proved and exposed them 
to be those of an executed robber. Later in life it 
is recorded of Martin, Bishop of Tours, that he lifted 
his voice in protest against persecutions for religion, 
and the punishment of heretics. In the nineteenth 
century we are little able to judge, how great must 
have been the faith of that man in the God of truth 
and of love.’ It was like a little sermon, and I think 
this is exactly how he said it, for I got Aunt Ade- 
laide to write it out for me this morning, and she 
remembers sermons awfully well. I’ve been looking 
St. Martin out in the calendar ; his day is the 10th of 
November. He is not a Collect, Epistle, and Gospel 
Saint, only one of the Black Letter ones ; but the 
10th of November is going to be on a Sunday this 
year, and I am so glad, for I’ve asked our chaplain 
if we may have the Tug-of-War Hymn for St. 
Martin — and he has given leave. 

“ It’s a long way off ; I wish it came sooner. So 
now, mother dear, you have time to make your ar- 
rangements as you like, but you see that whatever 
happens, I must be in camp on St. Martin’s Day. 

“ Your loving and dutiful son, 

“ Leonard.” 


114 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


CHAPTER XI. 

“ I have fought a good fight. I have finished my course. I 

have kept the faith. Henceforth ! ” 

—1 Tim. iv. 7. 

It was Sunday. Sunday, the tenth of Novem- 
ber — St. Martin’s day. 

Though it was in November, a summer day. A 
day of that Little Summer which alternately claims 
St. Luke and St. Martin as its patrons, and is apt to 
shine its brightest when it can claim both — on the 
feast of All Saints. 

Sunday in camp. With curious points of like- 
ness and unlikeness to English Sundays elsewhere. 
Like in that general aspect of tidiness and quiet, of 
gravity and pause, which betrays that a hard-work- 
ing and very practical people have thought good to 
keep much of the Sabbath with its Sunday. Like, 
too, in the little groups of children, gay in Sunday 
best, and grave with Sunday books, trotting to Sun- 
day school. 

Unlike, in that to see all the men about the place 
washed and shaved is not, among soldiers, peculiar 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


115 


to Sunday. Unlike, also, in a more festal feeling 
produced by the gay gatherings of men and officers 
on church parade (far distant be the day when 
parade service shall be abolished ! ), and by the 
exhilarating sounds of the bands with which each 
regiment marched from its parade-ground to the 
church. 

Here and there small detachments might be met 
making their way to the Homan Catholic church in 
camp, or to places of worship of various denomi- 
nations in the neighboring town : and on Blind 
Baby’s parade (where he was prematurely crushing 
his Sunday frock with his drum-basket in ecstatic 
sympathy with the bands), a corporal of exceptional 
views was parading himself and two privates of the 
same denomination, before marching the three of 
them to their own peculiar prayer-meeting. 

The brigade for the Iron Church paraded early (the 
sunshine and sweet air seemed to promote alacrity). 
And after the men were seated their officers still 
lingered outside, chatting with the ladies and the 
staff, as these assembled by degrees, and sunning 
themselves in the genial warmth of St. Martin’s 
Little Summer. 

The V. C. was talking with the little boys in 
sailor suits and their mother, when the officer who 
played the organ came toward them. 


116 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


“Good morning, Kapellmeister!” said two or 
three voices. 

Nicknames were common in the camp, and this 
one had been rapidly adopted. 

“Ye look cloudy this fine morning, Kapellmeis- 
ter ! ” cried the Irish officer. Got the tooth- 
ache ? ” 

The kapellmeister shook his head, and forced a 
smile which rather intensified than diminished 
the gloom of a countenance which did not 
naturally lend itself to lines of levity. Was he not 
a Scotchman and also a musician ? His lips smiled 
in answer to the chaff, but his somber eyes were 
fixed on the Y. C. They had — as some eyes have 
— an odd, summoning power, and the Y. C. went 
to meet him. 

When he said, “ I was in there this morning,” 
the Y. C.’s eyes followed the kappellmeister’s to 
the barrack master’s hut, and his own face fell. 

“ He wants the Tug-of-W ar Hymn,” said the kapell- 
meister. 

“ He’s not coming to church ? ” 

“ Oh, no ; but he’s set his heart on hearing the 
Tug-of-War Hymn through his bedroom window; and 
it seems the chaplain has promised we shall have it 
to-day. It’s a most amazing thing,” added the 
kappellmeister, shooting out one arm with a gesture, 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


117 


common to him when oppressed by an idea — “ it’s 
a most amazing thing ! For I think, if I were in my 
grave, that hymn — as these men bolt with it — might 
make me turn in my place of rest ; but it’s the last 
thing I should care to hear if I were ill in bed ! 
However he wants it, poor lad, and he asked me to 
ask you if you would turn outside when it begins, 
and sing so that he can hear your voice and the 
words.” 

“ Oh, he can never hear me over there \ ” 

“ He can hear you fast enough ! It’s quite close. 
He begged me to ask you, and I was to say it’s his 
last Sunday.” 

There was a pause. The Y. C. looked at the 
little “ officers’ door,” which was close to his usual 
seat, which always stood open in summer weather, 
and half in half out of which men often stood in the 
crush of a parade service. There was no difficulty 
in the matter except his own intense dislike to any- 
thing approaching to display. Also he had become 
more attached than he could have believed possible 
to the gallant-hearted child whose worship of him 
had been flattery as delicate as it was sincere. It 
was no small pain to know that the boy* lay dying 
— a pain he would have preferred to bear in 
silence. 

“ Is he very much set upon it ? ” 


11 g THE 8 TORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 

“ Absolutely.” 

“ Is she — is Lady Jane there ? ” 

“ All of them. He can’t last the day out.” 

“ When will it be sung — that hymn, I mean ? ” 

“ I’ve put it on after the third collect.” 

“ All right.” 

The Y.C. took up his sword and went to his seat, 
and the kapellmeister took up his and went to the 
organ. 


In the barrack master’s hut my hero lay dying. 
His mind was now absolutely clear, but during the 
night it had wandered — wandered in a delirium that 
was perhaps some solace of his sufferings, for he 
had believed himself to be a soldier on active serv- 
ice, bearing the brunt of battle and the pain of 
wounds ; and when fever consumed him, he thought 
it was the heat of India that parched his throat and 
scorched his skin ; and called again and again in 
noble raving to imaginary comrades to keep up 
heart and press forward. 

About four o’clock he sank into stupor, and the 
doctor forced Lady Jane to go and lie down, and 
the colonel took his wife away to rest also. 

At gun-fire Leonard opened his eyes. For some 
minutes he gazed straight ahead of him, and the 
master of the house, who sat by his bedside, could 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


119 


not be sure whether he were still delirious or no ; 
but when their eyes met he saw that Leonard’s 
senses had returned to him, and kissed the wan 
little hand that was feeling about for The Sweep’s 
head in silence that he almost feared to break. 

Leonard broke in by saying, “When did you 
bring Uncle Rupert to camp, father dear ? ” 

“ Uncle Rupert is at home, my darling ; and you 
are in Uncle Henry’s hut.” 

“I know I am; and so is Uncle Rupert. He is 
at the end of the room there. Can’t you see him ? ” 
“ Ho, Len ; I only see the wall, with your text on 
it that poor old father did for you.” 

“ My 4 goodly heritage,’ you mean ? I can’t see 
that now. Uncle Rupert is in front of it. I 
thought you put him there. Only he’s out of his 
frame, and — it’s very odd ! ” 

“ What’s odd, my darling ? ” 

“ Some one has wiped away all the tears from his 
eyes.” 

“ Hymn two * hundred and sixty-three : 6 Fight 
the good fight of faith.’ ” 

The third collect was just ended, and a prolonged 
and somewhat irregular amen was dying away 
among the choir, who were beginning to feel for 
their hymn-books. 


120 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


The lack of precision, the “ dropping shots ” style 
in which that amen was delivered, would have been 
more exasperating to the kapellmeister, if his own 
attention had not been for the moment diverted by 
anxiety to know if the Y. C. remembered that the 
time had come. 

As the chaplain gave out the hymn, the kapell- 
meister gave one glance of an eye, as searching as 
it was somber, round the corner of that odd little 
curtain which it is the custom to hang behind an 
organist ; and this sufficing to tell him that Y, C. 
had not forgotten, he drew out certain very vocal 
stops, and bending himself to manual and pedal, 
gave forth the popular melody of the “ Tug-of- 
War” hymn with a precision indicative of a reso- 
lution to have it sung in strict time, or know the 
reason why. 

And as nine hundred and odd men rose to their 
feet with some clatter of heavy boots and accoutre- 
ments the Y. C. turned quietly out of the crowded 
church, and stood outside upon the steps bare- 
headed in the sunshine of St. Martin’s little summer, 
and with the tiniest of hymn-books between his 
fingers and thumb. 

Circumstances had made a soldier of the Y. C., 
but by nature he was a student. When he brought 
the little hymn-book to his eyes to get a mental 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


121 


grasp of the hymn before he began to sing it, he 
committed the first four lines to an intelligence 
sufficiently trained to hold them in remembrance 
for the brief time that it would take to sing them. 
Involuntarily his active brain did more, and was 
crossed by a critical sense of the crude, barbaric 
taste of childhood, and a wonder what consolation 
the suffering boy could find in these gaudy lines : 

“ The Son of God goes forth to war, 

A kingly crown to gain ; 

His blood-red banner streams afar ; 

Who follows in His train ? ” 

But when he brought the little hymn-book to his 
eyes to take in the next four lines, they startled him 
with the revulsion of a sudden sympathy ; and lift- 
ing his face toward the barrack-master’s hut, he 
sang — as he rarely sang in drawing-rooms, even 
words the most felicitous to melodies the most 
swee t — sang not only to the delight of dying ears, 
but so that the kapellmeister himself heard him, 
and smiled as he heard : 

“ Who best can drink his cup of woe 
Triumphant over pain, 

Who patient bears His cross below, 

He follows in his train.” 


On each side of Leonard’s bed, like guardian 


122 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


angels, knelt his father and mother. At his feet 
lay The Sweep, who now and then lifted a long, 
melancholy nose and anxious eyes. 

At the foot of the bed stood the barrack master. 
He had taken up this position at the request of the 
master of the house, who had avoided any further 
allusion to Leonard’s fancy that their Naseby ances- 
tor had come to Asholt camp, but had begged his 
big brother-in-law to stand there and blot out Uncle 
Kupert’s ghost with his substantial body. 

But whether Leonard perceived the ruse , forgot 
Uncle Bupert, or saw him all the same, by no word 
or sign did he ever betray. 

Hear the window sat Aunt Adelaide, with her 
prayer-book, following the service in her own orderly 
and pious fashion, sometimes saying a prayer aloud 
at Leonard’s bidding, and anon replying to his oft- 
repeated inquiry: “Is it the third collect yet, 
aunty dear % ” 

She had turned her head, more quickly than 
usual, to speak, when, clear and strenuous on vocal 
stops, came the melody of the “Tug-of-War” 
hymn. 

“ There ! There it is ! Oh, good Kapellmeister ! 
Mother dear, please go to the window and see if Y. 
C. is there, and wave your hand to him. Father 
dear, lift me up a little, please. Ah, now I hear 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE • 


123 


him ! Good Y. C. ! I don’t believe you’ll sing bet- 
ter than that when you’re promoted to be an angel. 
Are the men singing pretty loud \ May I have 
a little of that stuff to keep me from coughing, 
mother, dear ? You know I am not impatient ; but 
I do hope, please God, I sha’n’t die till I’ve just 
heard them tug that verse once more ! ” 


The sight of Lady Jane had distracted the Y. C.’s 
thoughts from the hymn. He was singing mechanic- 
ally, when he became conscious of some increasing 
pressure and irregularity in the time. Then he re- 
membered what it was. The soldiers were begin- 
ning to tug. 

In a moment more the organ stopped, and the Y. 
C. found himself, with over three hundred men at 
his back, singing without accompaniment, and in 
unison — 

“ A noble army— men and boys, 

The matron and the maid, 

Around their Saviour’s throne rejoice, 

In robes of white arrayed.” 

The kapellmeister conceded that verse to the 
shouts of the congregation ; but he invariably re- 
claimed control over the last. 


1 24 THE STOR T OF A SHORT LIFE. 

Even now, as the men paused to take breath after 
their “tug,” the organ spoke again, softly, but 
seraph ically, and clearer and sweeter above the 
voices behind him rose the voice of the Y. C., sing- 
ing to his little friend — 

“ They climbed the steep ascent of Heaven, ’ 
Through peril, toil, and pain ” 

The men sang on ; but the Y. C. stopped, as if he 
had been shot. For a man’s hand had come 'to the 
barrack master’s window and pulled the white blind 
down. 


THE STOUT OF A SHORT LIFE. 


125 


CHAPTER XII. 

•* He that hath found some fledged-bird’s nest may know 
At first sight, if the bird be flown ; 

But what fair dell or grove he sings in now, 

That is to him unknown. ” 

— Henry Vaughan. 

True to its character as an emblem of human 
life, the camp stands on, with all its little manners 
and customs, while the men who garrison it pass 
rapidly away. 

Strange as the vicissitudes of a whole generation 
elsewhere, are the changes and chances that a few 
years bring to those who were stationed there 
together. 

To what unforeseen celebrit}^ (or to a dropping out 
of one’s life and even hearsay that once seemed quite 
as little likely) do one’s old neighbors sometimes 
come ! They seem to pass in a few drill seasons as 
other men pass by lifetimes. Some to foolishness 
and forgetfulness, and some to fame. This old 
acquaintance to unexpected glory ; that dear friend 
— alas! — to the grave. And some — God speed 


126 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


them ! — to the world’s end and back, following the 
drum till it leads them home again, with familiar 
faces little changed — with boys and girls, perchance, 
very greatly changed — and with hearts not changed 
at all. Can the last parting do much to hurt such 
friendships between good souls, who have so long 
learned to say farewell ; to love in absence, to trust 
through silence, and to have faith in reunion ? 

The barrack ' master’s appointment was an un- 
usually permanent one ; and he and his wife lived 
on in Asholt Camp, and saw regiments come and 
go, as O’Keilly had prophesied, and threw out 
additional rooms and bow-windows, and took in 
more garden, and kept a cow on a bit of govern- 
ment grass beyond the stores, and — with the man 
who did the roofs, the church orderly, and one or 
two other public characters — came to be reckoned 
among the oldest inhabitants. 

George went away pretty soon with his regiment. 
He was a good, straightforward young fellow, with 
a dogged devotion to duty, and a certain provincial- 
ism of intellect, and general John Bullishness, 
which he inherited from his father, who had inher- 
ited it from his country forefathers. He inherited 
equally a certain romantic, instinctive, and immov- 
able high-mindedness, not invariably characteristic 
of much more brilliant men. 


2 HE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


127 


He had been very fond of his little cousin, and 
Leonard’s death was a natural grief to him. The 
funeral tried his fortitude, and his detestation of 
“ scenes,” to the very uttermost. 

Like most young men who had the honor to 
know her, George’s devotion to his beautiful and 
gracious aunt, Lady Jane, had had in it something 
of the nature of worship ; but now he was almost 
glad he was going away, and not likely to see her 
face for a long time, because it made him feel 
miserable to see her, and he objected to feeling 
miserable both on principle and in practice. His 
peace of mind was assailed, however, from a wholly 
unexpected quarter, and one which pursued him 
even more abroad than at home. 

The barrack master’s son had been shocked by 
his cousin’s death ; but the shock was really and 
truly greater when he discovered, by chance gossip, 
and certain society indications, that the calamity 
which left Lady Jane childless had made him his 
uncle’s presumptive heir. The almost physical 
disgust which the discovery that he had thus 
acquired some little social prestige produced in this 
subaltern of a marching regiment must be hard to 
comprehend by persons of more imagination and 
less sturdy independence, or by scholars in the 


12 8 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


science of success. But man differs widely from 
man, and it is true. 

He had been nearly two years in Canada when 
“ the English mail ” caused him to fling his fur cap 
into the air with such demonstrations of delight as 
greatly aroused the curiosity of his comrades, and, 
as he bolted to his quarters without further expla- 
nation than “ Good news from home ! ” a rumor was 
for some time current that “Jones had come into 
his fortune.” 

Safe in his own quarters, he once more applied 
himself to his mother’s letter, and picked up the 
thread of a passage which ran thus : 

“Your dear father gets very impatient, and I 
long to be back in my hut again and see after my 
flowers, which I can trust to no one since O’Reilly 
took his discharge. The little conservatory is like a 
new toy to me, but it is very tiny, and your dear 
father is worse than no use in it, as he says himself. 
However, I can’t leave Lady Jane till she is quite 
strong. The baby is a noble little fellow and really 
beautiful — which I know you won’t believe, but 
that’s because you know nothing about babies : not 
as beautiful as Leonard, of course — that could never 
be — but a fine, healthy, handsome boy, with eyes 
that do remind one of his darling brother. I know, 
dear George, how greatly you always did admire 
and appreciate your aunt. Not one bit too much, 
my son. She is the noblest woman I have ever 
known. We have had a very happy time togethei, 
and I pray it may please God to spare this child to 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


129 


be the comfort to her that you are and have 
been to 

“ Y our loving Mother.” 

This was the good news from home that had sent 
the young subaltern’s fur cap into the air, and that 
now sent him to his desk ; the last place where, as a 
rule, he enjoyed himself. Poor scribe as he was, 
however, he wrote two letters then and there ; one 
to his mother, and one. of impetuous congratulations 
to his uncle, full of messages to Lady Jane. 

The master of the house read the letter more than 
once. It pleased him. 

In his own way he was quite as unworldly as his 
nephew, but it was chiefly from a philosophic con- 
tempt for many things that worldly folk struggle 
for, and a connoisseurship in sources of pleasure not 
purchasable except by the mentally endowed, and 
not even valuable to George, as he knew. And he 
was a man of the world, and a somewhat cynical 
student of character. 

After the third reading he took it, smiling, to Lady 
Jane’s morning room, where she was sitting, locking 
rather pale, with her fine hair “coming down ” over 
a tea-gown of strange tints of her husband’s choos 
ing, and with the new baby lying in her lap. 

He shut the door noiselessly, took a footstool to 
her feet, and kissed her hand. 


130 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


“You look like a Romney, Jane — an unfinished 
Romney, for you are too white. If you’ve got a 
headache, you shan’t hear this letter which 1 know 
you’d like to hear.” 

“ 1 see that I should. Canada postmarks. It’s 
George.” 

“ Yes ; it’s George. He’s uproariously delighted 
at the advent of this little chap.” 

“ Oh, 1 knew he’d be that. Let me hear what he 
says.” 

The master of the house read the letter. Lady 
Jane’s eyes filled with tears at the tender references 
to Leonard, but she smiled through them. 

“ He’s a dear, good fellow.” 

“ He is a dear good fellow. It’s a most borne in- 
tellect, but excellence itself. And I’m bound to 
say,” added the master of the house, driving his 
hands through the jungle of his hair, “ that there is 
a certain excellence about a soldier when he is a 
good fellow that seems to be a thing per se” 

After meditating on this matter for some mo- 
ments, he sprang up and vigorously rang the bell. 

“Jane, you’re terribly white; you can bear noth- 
ing. Nurse is to take that brat at once, and I’m 
going to carry you into the garden.” 

Always much given to the collection and care of 
precious things, and apt also to change his fads and 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


131 


to pursue each with partiality for the moment, the 
master of the house had, for some time past, been 
devoting all his thoughts and his theories to the 
preservation of a possession not less valuable than 
the paragon of Chippendale chairs, and much more 
destructible — he was taking care of his good wife. 

Many family treasures are lost for lack of a little 
timely care and cherishing, and there are living 
“examples” as rare as most bric-a-brac, and quite as 
perishable. Lady Jane was one of them, and after 
Leonard’s death, with no motive for keeping up, she 
sank into a condition of weakness so profound that 
it became evident that, unless her failing forces were 
fostered, she would not long be parted from her 
son. 

Her husband had taken up his poem again, to 
divert his mind from his own grief; but he left it 
behind, and took Lady Jane abroad. 

Once roused, he brought to the task of coaxing 
her back to life an intelligence that generally in- 
sured the success of his aims, and he succeeded now. 
Lady Jane got well ; out of sheer gratitude, she said. 

Leonard’s military friends do not forget him. 
They are accustomed to remember the absent. 

With the death of his little friend the V. C. quits 
these pages. He will be found in the pages of his- 
tory. 


132 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


The kapellmeister is a line organist, and a few 
musical members of the congregation, of all ranks, 
have a knack of lingering after Evensong at the 
Iron Church to hear him “play away the people.’’ . 
But on the Sunday after Leonard’s death the con- 
gregation rose and remained en masse as the Dead 
March from Saul spoke in solemn and familiar tones 
the requiem of a hero’s soul. 

Blind Baby’s father was a Presbyterian, and dis- 
approved of organs, but he was a fond parent, and 
his blind child had heard tell that the officer who 
played the organ so grandly was to play the Dead 
March on the Sabbath evening for the little gentle- 
man that died on the Sabbath previous, and he was 
wild to go and hear it. Then the service would be 
past, and the kapellmeister was a fellow-Scot, and 
the house of mourning has a powerful attraction for 
that serious race, and for one reason or another 
Corporal Macdonald yielded to the point of saying, 
“ Aweel, if you’re a gude bairn I’ll tak ye to the 
kirk door, and ye may lay your lug at the chink, 
and hear what ye can.” 

But when they got there the door was open, and 
Blind Baby pushed his way through the crowd, as 
if the organ had drawn him with a rope, straight to 
the kapellmeister’s side. 

It was the beginning of a friendship much to Blind 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


133 


Baby’s advantage, which did not end when the 
child had been sent to a blind school, and then to a 
college where he learned to be a tuner, and “ earned 
his ownliving.” 

Poor Jemima fretted so bitterly for the loss of the 
child she had nursed with such devotion, that there 
was possibly some truth in O’Keilly’s rather compli- 
cated assertion that he married her because he could 
not bear to see her cry. 

He took his discharge, and was installed by the mas- 
ter of the house as lodge- keeper at the gates through 
which he had so often passed as a “ tidy one.” 

Freed from military restraints, he became a very 
untidy one indeed, and grew hair in such reckless 
abundance that he came to look like an ourang- 
outang with an unusually restrained figure and ex- 
ceptionally upright carriage. 

He was the best of husbands every day in the year 
but the seventeenth of March; and Jemima enjoyed 
herself very much as she boasted to the wives of less 
handy civilians that “ her man was as good as a 
woman about the house, any day.” (Any day, that 
is, except the seventeenth of March.) 

With window-plants cunningly and ornamentally 
enclosed by a miniature paling and gate, as if the 
window-sill were a hut garden ; with colored tissue 
paper fly-catchers made on the principle of barrack- 


134 


THE STORY OR A SHORT LIFE. 


room Christmas decorations ; with shelves, brackets, 
Oxford frames, and other efforts of the decorative 
joinery of O’Reilly’s evenings ; with a large, hard 
sofa, chairs, elbow-chairs, and antimacassars ; and 
with a round table in the middle — the lodge parlor 
is not a room to live in, but it is almost bewildering 
to peep into, and curiously like the shrine of some 
departed saint, so highly framed are the photo- 
graphs of Leonard’s lovely face, and so numerous 
are his relics. 

The fate of Leonard’s dog may not readily be 
guessed. 

The gentle reader would not deem it unnatural 
were I to chronicle that he died of a broken heart. 
Failing this excess of sensibility, it seems obvious 
that he should have attached himself immovably to 
Lady Jane, and have lived at ease and died full of 
dignity in his little master’s ancestral halls. He did 
go back there for a short time, but the day after the 
funeral he disappeared. When word came to the 
household that he was missing and had not been 
seen since he was let out in the morning, the butler 
put on his hat and hurried off with a beating heart 
to Leonard’s grave. 

But The Sweep was not there, dead or alive. He 
was at that moment going at a sling trot along the 
dusty road that led into the camp. Timid persons, 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


135 


imperfectly acquainted with dogs, avoided him ; he 
went so very straight, it looked like hydrophobia ; 
men who knew better, and saw that he was only “ on 
urgent private affairs,” chaffed him as they passed, 
and some with little canes and horseplay waylaid 
and tried to intercept him. But he was a big dog, 
and made himself respected, and pursued his way. 

His way was to the barrack master’s hut. 

The first room he went into was that in which 
Leonard died. He did not stay there three min- 
utes. Then he went to Leonard’s own room, the 
little one next to the kitchen, and this he examined 
exhaustively, crawling under the bed, snuffing at 
both doors, and lifting his long nose against hope to 
investigate impossible places, such as the top of the 
military chest of drawers. Then he got on to the 
late general’s camp bed and went to sleep. 

He was awakened by the smell of the bacon frying 
for breakfast, and he had breakfast with the family. 
After this he went out, and was seen by different 
persons at various places in the camp, the general 
parade, the stores, and the Iron Church, still search- 
ing. 

He was invited to dinner in at least twenty differ- 
ent barrack-rooms, but he rejected all overtures till 
he met O’Reilly, when he turned round and went 
back to dine with him and his comrades. 


136 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


He searched Leonard’s room once more, and not 
finding him, he refused to make his home with the 
barrack master ; possibly because he could not make 
up his mind to have a home at all till he could have 
one with Leonard. 

Half-a-dozen of Leonard’s officer friends would 
willingly have adopted him, but he would not own 
another master. Then military dogs are apt to at- 
tach themselves exclusively either to commissioned 
or to non-commissioned soldiers, and The Sweep cast 
in his lot with the men, and slept on old coats in 
corners of barrack-rooms, and bided his time. Dogs’ 
masters do get called away suddenly and come back 
again. The Sweep had his hopes, and did not 
commit himself. 

Even if, at length, he realized that Leonard had 
passed beyond this life’s outposts, it roused in him 
no instincts to return to the Hall. With a some- 
what sublime contempt for those shreds of poor mor- 
tality laid to rest in the family vault, he elected to 
live where his little master had been happiest — in 
Asholt Camp. 

Now and then he became excited. It was when 
a fresh regiment marched in. On these occasions 
he invariably made so exhaustive an examination of 
the regiment and its baggage, as led to his being 
more or less forcibly adopted by half a dozen good- 


THE STOUT OF A SHORT LIFE. 


137 


natured soldiers who had had to leave their pre- 
vious pets behind them. But when he found that 
Leonard had not returned with that detachment, he 
shook off everybody and went back to O’Reilly. 

When O’Reilly married, he took The Sweep to the 
lodge, who thereupon instituted a search about the 
house and grounds ; but it was evident that he had 
not expected any good results, and when he did not 
find Leonard he went away quickly down the old 
elm avenue. As he passed along the dusty road 
that led to camp for the last time, he looked back 
now and again with sad eyes to see if O’Reilly was 
not coming too. Then he returned to the barrack- 
room, where he was greeted with uproarious wel- 
come, and eventually presented with a new collar 
by subscription. And so, rising with gunfire and 
resting with “ lights out,” he lived and died a 
soldier’s dog. 


The new heir thrives at the Hall. He has brothers 
and sisters to complete the natural happiness of his 
home, he has good health, good parents, and is hav- 
ing a good education. He will have a goodly herit- 
age. He is developing nearly as vigorous a fancy 
for soldiers as Leonard had, and drills his brothers 
and sisters with the help of O’Reilly. If he wishes 


158 


THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 


to make arms his profession he will not be thwarted, 
for the master of the house has decided that it is 
in many respects a desirable and wholesome career 
for an eldest son. Lady Jane may yet have to 
buckle on a hero’s sword. Brought up by such a 
mother in the fear of God, he ought to be good, he 
may live to be great, it’s odds if he cannot be 
happy. But never, not in the “ one crowded hour 
of glorious” victory, not in years of the soft- 
est comforts of a peaceful home, by no virtues and in 
no success shall he bear more fitly than his crippled 
brother bore the ancient motto of their house : 


L^ETUS SORTE MEA. 5 


JACKANAPES. 








































t 












; 


« 






































































JACKANAPES 


CHAPTER L 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 

Last eve in beauty’s circle proudly gay, 

The midnight brought the signal sound of strife, 

The morn the marshaling in arms — the day 
Battle’s magnificently stern array ! 

The thunder-clouds close o’er it, which when rent 
The earth is covered thick with other clay, 

Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, 

Eider and horse : — friend, foe, — in one red burial blent. 

Their praise is hymn’d by loftier harps than mine 
Yet one would I select from that proud throng. 

to thee, to thousands, of whom each 

And one as all a ghastly gap did make 
In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach 
Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake ; 

The Archangel’s trump, not glory’s must awake 
Those whom they thirst for. — Byron. 


142 


JACKANAPES. 


WO donkeys and the 
geese lived on the 
Green, and all other 
residents of any so- 
cial standing lived 
in houses round it. 
The houses had no 
names. Every- 
body’s address was, 
“ The Green,” but 
the postman and the 
people of the place knew where each family 
lived. As to the rest of the world, what has one 
to do with the rest of the world, when he is 
safe at home on his own Goose Green? More- 
over, if a stranger did come on any lawful busi- 
ness, he might ask his way at the shop. 

Most of the inhabitants were long-lived, early 
deaths (like that of the little Miss Jessamine) being 
exceptional ; and most of the old people were proud 
of their age, especially the sexton, who would be 
ninety-nine come Martinmas, and whose father 
remembered a man who had carried arrows, as a 
boy, for the battle of Flodden Field. The Gray 
Goose and the big Miss Jessamine were the only 
elderly persons who kept their ages secret. Indeed, 



JACKANAPES. 


143 


Miss Jessamine never mentioned any one’s age, or 
recalled the exact year in which anything had 
happened. She said that she had been taught that 
it was bad manners to do so “ in a mixed assembly.” 

The Gray Goose also avoided dates, but this was 
partly because her brain, though intelligent, was 
not mathematical, and computation was beyond 
her. She never got farther than “ last Michael- 
mas,” “ the Michaelmas before that,” and “ the 
Michaelmas before the Michaelmas before that.” 
After this her head, which was small, became con- 
fused, and she said, “ Ga, ga ! ” and changed the 
subject. 

But she remembered the little Miss Jessamine, 
the Miss Jessamine with the “ conspicuous ” hair. 
Her aunt, the big Miss Jessamine, said it was her 
only fault. The hair was clean, was abundant, 
was glossy, but do what you would with it, it never 
looked quite like other people’s. And at church, 
after Saturday night’s wash, it shone like the best 
brass fender after a spring cleaning. In short, it 
was conspicuous, which does not become a young 
woman — especially in church. 

Those were worrying times altogether, and the 
Green was used for strange purposes. A political 
meeting was held on it with the village cobbler in 
the chair, and a speaker who came by stage coach 


144 


JACKANAPES. 


from the town, where they had wrecked the baker’s 
shops, and discussed the price of bread. He came 
a second time, by stage, but the people had heard 
something about him in the meanwhile, and they 
did not keep him on the Green. They took him to 
the pond and tried to make him swim, which he 
could not do, and the whole affair was very dis- 
turbing to all quiet and peaceable fowls. After 
which another man came, and preached sermons 
on the Green, and a great many people went to 
hear him ; for those were “ trying times,” and folk 
ran hither and thither for comfort. And then 
what did they do but drill the plowboys on the 
Green, to get them ready to fight the French, and 
teach them the goose-step ! However, that came to 
an end at last, for Bony was sent to St. Helena, 
and the plowboys were sent back to the plow. 

Everybody lived in fear of Bony in those days 
especially the naughty children, who were kept in 
order during the day by threats of, “Bony shall 
have you,” and who had nightmares about him in 
the dark. They thought he was an ogre in a 
cocked hat. The Grey Goose thought he was a fox, 
and that all the men of England were going out in 
red coats to hunt him. It was no use to argue the 
point, for she had a very small head, and when one 
idea got into it there was no room for another. 


JACKANAPES. 


145 


Besides, the Gray Goose never saw Bony, nor did 
the children, which rather spoiled the terror of him 
so that the Black Captain became more effective as 
a bogy with hardened offenders. The Gray Goose 
remembered his coming to the place perfectly. 
What he came for she did not pretend to know. It 
was all part and parcel of the war and bad times. 
He was called the Black Captain, partly because of 
himself, and partly because of his wonderful black 
mare. Strange stories were afloat of how far and 
how fast that mare could go, when her master’s 
hand was on her mane and he whispered in her ear. 
Indeed, some people thought we might reckon our- 
selves very lucky if we were not out of the frying- 
pan into the fire, and had not got a certain well- 
known gentleman of the road to protect us against 
the French. But that, of course, made him none 
the less useful to the Johnson’s nurse, when the 
little Miss Johnsons were naughty. 

“You leave off crying this minnit, Miss Jane, or 
I’ll give you right away to that horrid wicked 
officer. Jemima ! just look out o’ the windy, if you 
please, and see if the Black Cap’n’s a-coming with 
his horse to carry away Miss Jane.” 

And there, sure enough, the Black Captain strode 
by, with his sword clattering as if it did not know 
whose head to cut off first. But he d*d not call for 


146 


JACKANAPES . 


Miss Jane that time. He went on to the Green, 
where he came so suddenly upon the eldest Master 
Johnson, sitting in a puddle on purpose, in his new 
nankeen skeleton suit, that the young gentleman 
thought judgment had overtaken him at last, and 
abandoned himself to the howlings of despair. His 
howls were redoubled when he was clutched from 
behind and swung over the Black Captain’s 
shoulder, but in five minutes his tears were 
stanched, and he was playing with the officer’s 
accoutrements. All of which the Gray Goose saw 
with her own eyes, and heard afterward that that 
bad boy had been whining to go back to the Black 
Captain ever since, which showed how hardened he 
was, and that nobody but Bonaparte himself could 
be expected to do him any good. 

But those were “trying times.” It was bad 
enough when the pickle of a large and respectable 
family cried for the Black Captain ; when it came 
to the little Miss Jessamine crying for him, one felt 
that the sooner the French landed and had done 
with it the better. 

The big Miss Jessamine’s objection to him was 
that he was a soldier, and this prejudice was shared 
by all the Green. “ A soldier,” as the speaker from 
the town had observed, “ is a bloodthirsty, unsettled 
sort of a rascal ; that the peaceable, home-loving, 


JACKANAPES. 


U7 


bread-winning citizen can never conscientiously look 
on as a brother, till he has beaten his sword into a 
plowshare, and his spear into a pruning hook.” 

On the other hand there was some truth in what 
the postman (an old soldier) said in reply; that 
the sword has to cut a way for us out of many a 
scrape into which our bread-winners get us when 
they drive their plowshares into fallows that 
don’t belong to them. Indeed, while our most 
peaceful citizens were prosperous chiefly by means 
of cotton, of sugar, and of the rise and fall of the 
money-market (not to speak of such saleable 
matters as opium, firearms, and “ black ivory ”), 
disturbances were apt to arise in India, Africa, and 
other outlandish parts, where the fathers of our 
domestic race were making fortunes for their 
families. And, for that matter, even on the Green, 
we did not wish the military to leave us in the 
lurch, so long as there was any fear that the 
French were coming.* 

* “The political men declare war, and generally for com- 
mercial interests ; but when the nation is thus embroiled 
with its neighbors the soldier .... draws the sword, at 
the command of his country. . . . One word as to thy 

comparison of military and commercial persons. What 
manner of men be they who have supplied the Caff res with 
the firearms and ammunition to maintain their savage and 


148 


JACKANAPES. 


To let the Black Captain have little Miss Jessa* 
mine, however, was another matter. Her aunt 
would not hear of it ; and then, to crown all, it 
appeared that the captain’s father did not think the 
young lady good enough for his son. Never was 
any affair more clearly brought to a conclusion. 

But those were “ trying times ; ” and one moon- 
light night, when the Gray Goose was sound asleep 
upon one leg, the Green was rudely shaken under 
her by the thud of a horse’s feet. “ Ga, ga ! ” said 
she, putting down the other leg, and running away. 

By the time she returned to her place not a thing 
was to be seen or heard. The horse had passed like 
a shot. But next day, there was hurrying and 
skurrying and cackling at a very early hour, all 
about the white house with the black beams, where 
Miss Jessamine lived. And when the sun was so 
low, and the shadows so long on the grass that the 
Gray Goose felt ready to run away at the sight of 
her own neck, little Miss Jane Johnson, and her 
“particular friend” Clarinda, sat under the big 
oak tree on the Green, and Jane pinched Clarinda’s 


deplorable wars ? Assuredly they are not military. . . . 

Cease then, if thou wouldst be counted among the just, to 
vilify soldiers. ”—W. Napier, Lieutenant-General, November , 
1851. 


JACKANAPES. 


149 


little finger till she found that she could keep a 
secret, and then she told her in confidence that she 
had heard from nurse and Jemima that Miss Jessa- 
mine’s niece had been a very naughty girl, and that 
that horrid wicked officer had come for her on this 
black horse, and carried her right away. 



“ Will she never come back ? ” -asked Clarinda. 
“Oh, no!” said Jane decidedly. “Bony never 
brings people back.” 

“ Not never no more ? ” sobbed Clarinda, for she 
was weak-minded, and could not bear to think that 
Bony never let naughty people go home again. 
Next day Jane had heard more. 


150 


JACKANAPES. 


“ He has taken her to a Green.” 

“ A Goose Green ? ” asked Clarinda. 

“Ho. A Gretna Green. Don’t ask so many 
questions, child,” said Jane; who, having no more 
to tell, gave herself airs. 

Jane was wrong on one point. Miss Jessamine’s 
niece did come hack, and she and her husband were 
forgiven. The Gray Goose remembered it w T ell, it 
was Michaelmastide, the Michaelmas before the 
Michaelmas before the Michaelmas — but, ga, ga ! 
What does the date matter? It was autumn, 
harvest-time, and everybody was so busy prophesy- 
ing and praying about the crops, that the young 
couple wandered through the lanes, and got black- 
berries for Miss Jessamine’s celebrated crab and 
blackberry jam, and made guys of themselves with 
bryony-wreaths, and not a soul troubled his head 
about them, except the children and the postman. 
The children dogged the Black Captain’s footsteps 
(his bubble reputation as an ogre having burst), clam- 
oring for a ride on the black mare. And the postman 
would go somewhat out of his postal way to catch 
the captain’s dark eye, and show that he had not 
forgotten how to salute an officer. 

But they were “ trying times.” One afternoon 
the black mare w T as stepping gently up and down 
the grass, with her head at her master’s shoulder, 


JACKANAPES. 


151 


and as many children crowded on to her silky back 
as if she had been an elephant in a menagerie ; and 
the next afternoon she carried him away, sword. 



and sabre-tache clattering war-music at her side, and 
the old postman waiting for them, rigid with sal- 
utation, at the four cross roads. 

War and bad times ! It was a hard winter, and 
the big Miss Jessamine and the little Miss 


152 


JACKANAPES. 


Jessamine (but she was Mrs. Black-Captain now), 
lived very economically that they might help their 
poorer neighbors. They neither entertained nor went 
into company, but the young lady always went up 
the village as far as the “ George and Dragon ” for air 
and exercise, when the London Mail* came in. 

One day (it was a day in the following June) it 
came in earlier than usual, and the young lady was 
not there to meet it. 

But a crowd soon gathered round the “ George 
and Dragon,” gaping to see the mail coach dressed 
with flowers and oak-leaves, and the guard wearing 
a laurel wreath over and above his royal livery. 
The ribbons that decked the horses were stained 
and flecked with the warmth and foam of the pace 
at which they had come, for they had pressed on 
with the news of victory. 

Miss Jessamine was sitting with her niece under 


* The mail coach it was that distributed over the face of 
the land, like the opening of apocalyptic vials, the heart-shak- 
ing news of Trafalgar, of Salamanca, of Vittoria, of Water- 
loo. . . . The grandest chapter of our experience, within 
the whole mail coach service, was on those occasions when we 
went down from London with the news of victory. Five 
years of life it was worth paying down for the privilege of an 
outside place. 


De Quincey. 


JACKANAPES. 


153 


the oak tree on the green, when the postman put a 
newspaper silently into her hand. Her niece turned 
quickly. 

“ Is there news ? ” 

“ Don’t agitate yourself, my dear,” said her aunt. 
“ I will read it aloud and then we can enjoy it to- 
gether ; a far more comfortable method, my love, 
than when you go up the village, and come home 
out of breath, having snatched half the news as 
you run.” 

“ I am all attention, dear aunt,” said the little 
lady, clasping her hands tightly on her lap. 

Then Miss Jessamine read aloud — she was proud 
of her reading — and the old soldier stood at atten- 
tion behind her, with such a blending of pride and 
pity on his face as it was strange to see : 

“ Downing Street, 
June 22, 1815, 1 a.m.” 

“ That’s one in the morning,” gasped the post- 
man ; “ beg your pardon, mum.” 

But though he apologized, he could not refrain 
from echoing here and there a weighty word. 
“ Glorious victory ” — “ Two hundred pieces of artil- 
lery ” — “ Immense quantity of ammunition ” — and 
so forth. 

“ The loss of the British army upon this occasion has un- 


154 


JACKANAPES. 


fortunately been most severe. It had not been possible to 
make out a return of the killed and wounded when Major 
Percy left headquarters. The names of the officers killed 
and wounded, as far as they can be collected, are annexed. 

“ I have the honor ” 

“ The list, aunt ! Bead the list ! ” 

“ My love — my darling — let us go in and ” 

“No. Now! now!” 

To one thing the supremely afflicted are entitled 
in their sorrow — to be obeyed — and yet it is the 
last kindness that people commonly will do them. 
But Miss Jessamine did. Steadying her voice, as 
best she might, she read on, and the old soldier 
stood bareheaded to hear that first roll of the dead 
at Waterloo, which began with the Duke of Bruns- 
wick, and ended with Ensign Brown.* Five-ana- 
thirty British captains fell asleep that day on the 
bed of honor, and the Black Captain slept among 
them. 


There are killed and wounded by war, of whom 
no returns reach Downing Street. 


♦“Brunswick’s fated chieftain” fell at Quartre Bras, the 
day before Waterloo, but this first (very imperfect) list, as it 
appeared in the newspapers of the day, did begin with his 
name, and end with that of an Ensign Brown. 


JACKANAPES. 


155 


Three days later, the captain’s wife had joined 
him, and Miss Jessamine was kneeling by the cradle 
of their orphan son, a purple-red morsel of human- 
ity, with conspicuously golden hair. 

“Will he live, doctor?” 

“ Live ? God bless my soul, ma’am ! Look at 
him ! The young Jackanapes ! ” 


256 


JACKANAPES. 


CHAPTER II. 

And he wandered away and away 
With Nature, the dear old Nurse. 

— Longfellow. 

HE Gray Goose remembered quite 
well the year that Jackanapes 
began to walk, for it was the 
year that the speckled hen for 
the first time in all her motherly 
life got out of patience when 
she was sitting. She had been 
rather proud of the eggs — they 
were unusually large — but she never felt quite coim 
fortable on them ; and whether it was because she 
used to get cramp, and go off the nest, or because 
the season was bad, or what, she never could tell, 
but every egg was addled but one, and the one that 
did hatch gave her more trouble than any chick she 
had ever reared. 

It was a fine, downy, bright yellow little thing, 
but it had a monstrous big nose and feet, and such 
an ungainly walk as she knew no other instance of 



JACKANAPES. 


157 


in her well-bred and high-stepping family. And as 
to behavior, it was not that it was either quarrel- 
some or moping, but simply unlike the rest. When 
the other chicks hopped and cheeped on the Green 
about their mother’s feet, this solitary yellow brat 
went waddling off on its own responsibility, and do 
or cluck what the speckled hen would, it went to 
play in the pond. 

It was off one day as usual, and the hen was 
fussing and fuming after it, when the postman, 
going to deliver a letter at Miss Jessamine’s door, 
was nearly knocked over by the good lady herself, 
who, bursting out of the house with her cap just off 
and her bonnet just not on, fell into his arms, 
crying : 

“ Baby ! Baby ! Jackanapes ! Jackanapes ! ” 

If the postman loved anything on earth, he loved 
the captain’s yellow-haired child, so propping Miss 
Jessamine against her own door post, he followed 
the direction of her trembling fingers and made for 
the Green. 

Jackanapes had had the start of the postman by 
nearly ten minutes. The world — the round green 
world with an oak tree on it — was just becoming 
very interesting to him. He had tried, vigorously 
but ineffectually, to mount a passing pig the last 
time he was taken out walking ; but then he was 


158 


JACKANAPES. 


encumbered with a nurse. Now he was his own 
master, and might, by courage and energy, become 
the master of that delightful, downy, dumpy, yellow 
thing, that was bobbing along over the green grass 



in front of him. Forward! Charge! He aimed 
well, and grabbed it, but only to feel the delicious 
downiness and dumpiness slipping through his 
fingers as he fell upon his face. “ Quawk ! ” said 
the yellow thing, and wobbled off sideways. It was 
ibis oblique movement that enabled Jackanapes to 
come up with it, for it was bound for the pond, and 
therefore obliged to come back into line. He failed 



JACKANAPES. 


150 


again from top- heaviness, and his prey escaped side- 
ways as before, and, as before, lost ground in getting 
back to the direct road to the pond. 

And at the pond the postman found them both, 
one yellow thing rocking safely on the ripples 
that lie beyond duck-weed, and the other washing 
his draggled frock with tears, because he too had 
tried to sit upon the pond, and it wouldn’t hold 
him. 


160 


JACKANAPES. 


CHAPTER III. 

. . . If studious, copie fair what time hath blurred, 
Redeem truth from his jawes ; if souldier, 

Chase brave employments with a naked sword 
Throughout the world. Fool not ; for all may have, 

If they dare try, a glorious life, or grave. 


In brief, acquit thee bravely ; play the man, 

Look not on pleasures as they come, but go. 

Defer not the least vertue ; life’s poore span 
Make not an ell, by trifling in thy woe. 

If thou do ill, the joy fades, not the pains. 

If well : the pain doth fade, the joy remains. 

—George Herbert. 



OUNG Mrs. John- 
son, who was a 
mother of many, 
hardly knew which 
to pity more; Miss 
Jessamine for having 
her little ways and 
her antimacassars rumpled by a young Jackanapes ; 


JACKANAPES. 


161 


or the boy himself, for being brought up by an old 
maid. 

Oddly enough, she would probably have pitied 
neither, had Jackanapes been a girl. (One is so apt 
to think that what works smoothest works to the 
highest ends, having no patience for the results of 
friction.) That father in God, who bade the young 
men to be pure, and the maidens brave, greatly dis- 
turbed a member of his congregation, who thought 
that the great preacher had made a slip of the 
tongue. 

“ That the girls should have purity, and the boys 
courage, is what you would say, good father ? ” 

“ Nature has done that,” was the reply ; “I meant 
what I said.” 

In good sooth, a young maid is all the better 
for learning some robuster virtues than maidenliness 
and not to move the antimacassars. And the 
robuster virtues require some fresh air and freedom. 
As, on the other hand, Jackanapes (who had a 
boy’s full share of the little beast and the young 
monkey in his natural composition) was none the 
worse, at his tender years, for learning some 
maidenliness — so far as maidenliness means decency, 
pity, unselfishness and pretty behavior. 

And it is due to him to say that he was an 
obedient boy, and a boy whose word could be de- 


162 


JACKANAPES. 


pended on, long before his grandfather the general 
came to live at the Green. 

He was obedient ; that is he did what his great- 
aunt told him. But — oh dear! oh dear! — the 
pranks he played, which it had never entered into 
her head to forbid ! 

It was when he had just been put into skeletons 
(frocks never suited him) that he became very 
friendly with Master Tony Johnson, a younger 
brother of the young gentleman who sat in the 
puddle on purpose. Tony was not enterprising, 
and Jackanapes led him by the nose. One sum- 
mer’s evening they were out late, and Miss Jessa- 
mine was becoming anxious, when Jackanapes 
presented himself with a ghastly face all besmirched 
with tears. He was unusually subdued. 

“I’m afraid,” he sobbed; “if you please, I’m 
very much afraid that Tony Johnson’s dying in the 
churchyard.” 

Miss Jessamine was just beginning to be dis- 
tracted, when she smelled Jackanapes. 

“ You naughty, naughty boys ! Do you mean 
to tell me that you’ve been smoking? ” 

“Hot pipes,” urged Jackanapes; “upon my 
honor, aunty, not pipes. Only cigars like Mr. 
Johnson’s! and only made of brown paper with a 
very very little tobacco from the shop inside them.” 


JACKANAPES. 


163 


Whereupon, Miss Jessamine sent a servant to the 
churchyard, who found Tony Johnson lying on a 
tombstone, very sick, and having ceased to enter- 
tain any hopes of his own recovery. 

If it could be possible that any “ unpleasantness ” 
could arise between two such amiable neighbors as 
Miss Jessamine and Mrs. Johnson — and if the still 
more incredible paradox can be that ladies may 
differ over a point on which they are agreed — that 
point was the admitted fact that Tony Johnson 
was “ delicate,” and the difference lay chiefly in 
this : Mrs. Johnson said that Tony was delicate — 
meaning that he was more finely strung, more 
sensitive, a properer subject for pampering and 
petting than Jackanapes, and that consequently, 
Jackanapes was to blame for leading Tony into 
scrapes which resulted in his being chilled, fright- 
ened, or (most frequently) sick. But when Miss 
Jessamine said that Tony Johnson was delicate, she 
meant that he was more puling, less manly, and less 
healthily brought up than Jackanapes, who, when 
they got into mischief together, was certainly not 
to blame because his friend could not get wet, sit a 
kicking donkey, ride in the giddy-go-round, bear 
the noise of a cracker, or smoke brown paper with 
impunity, as he could. 

Not that there was ever the slightest quarrel 
between the ladies. It never even came near it 


164 


JACKANAPES. 


except the day after Tony had been so very sick 
with riding Bucephalus in the giddy-go-round. Mrs. 
Johnson had explained to Miss Jessamine that the 
reason Tony was so easily upset, was the unusual 
sensitiveness (as a doctor had explained it to her) of 
the nervous centers in her family — “ Fiddlestick ! ” 
So Mrs. Johnson understood Miss Jessamine to say, 
but it appeared that she only said “ Treaclestick ! ” 
which is quite another thing, and of which Tony 
was undoubtedly fond. 

It was at the fair that Tony was made ill by rid- 
ing on Bucephalus. Once a year the Goose Green 
became the scene of a carnival. First of all, carts 
and caravans were rumbling up all along, day and 
night. Jackanapes could hear them as he lay in 
bed, and could hardly sleep for speculating what 
booths and whirligigs he should find fairly estab- 
lished, when he and his dog Spitfire went out after 
breakfast. As a matter of fact, he seldom had to 
wait so long for the news of the fair. The postman 
knew the window out of which Jackanapes’ yellow 
would come, and was ready with his report. 

“ Royal Theayter, Master Jackanapes, in the 
old place, but be careful o’them seats, sir ; they’re 
rickettier than ever. Two sweets and a ginger-beer 
under the oak tree, and the flying boats is just 
a-coming along the road.” 


JACKANAPES. 


165 


No doubt it was partly because be had already 
suffered severely in the flying boats, that Tony 
collapsed so quickly in the giddy-go-round. He 
only mounted Bucephalus (who was spotted, and 
had no tail), because Jackanapes urged him, and 
held out the ingenious hope that the round-and- 
round feeling would very likely cure the up-and- 
down sensation. It did not, however, and Tony 
tumbled off during the first revolution. 

Jackanapes was not absolutely free from qualms, 
but having once mounted the Black Prince he 
stuck to him as a horseman should. During the 
first round he waved his hat, and observed with 
some concern that the Black Prince had lost an ear 
since last fair ; at the second, he looked a little 
pale, but sat upright, though somewhat unnecessa- 
rily rigid ; at the third round he shut his eyes. 
During the fourth his hat fell off, and he 
clasped his horse’s neck. By the fifth he had laid 
his yellow head against the Black Prince’s mane, 
and so clung anyhow till the hobby-horses 
stopped, when the proprietor assisted him to 
alight, and he sat down rather suddenly and said he 
had enjoyed it very much. 

The Gray Goose always ran away at the first 
approach of the caravans, and never came back to 
the Green till there was nothing left of the fair but 


166 


JACKANAPES. 


footmarks and oyster-shells. Running away was 
her pet principle ; the only system, she maintained, 
by which you can live long and easy, and lose 
nothing. If you run away when you see danger, 
you can come back when all is safe. Run quickly, 
return slowly, hold your head high, and gabble as 
loud as you can, and you’ll preserve the respect of 



the Goose Green to a peaceful old age. Why 
should you struggle and get hurt, if you can lower 
your head and swerve, and not loose a feather ? 
Why in the world should any one spoil the pleasure 
of life, or risk his skin, if he can help it ? 

“ ‘ What’s the use ! ’ 

Said the Goose.” 


Before answering which one might have to con- 



JACKANAPES. 


167 


sider what world — which life — and whether his skin 
were a goose-skin ; but the Gray Goose’s head would 
never have held all that. 

Grass soon grows over footprints, and the village 
children took the oyster-shells to trim their gardens 
with ; but the year after Tony rode Bucephalus 
there lingered another relic of fair-time, in which 
Jackanapes was deeply interested. “ The Green” 
proper was originally only part of a straggling 
common, which in its turn merged into some wilder 
waste land where gypsies sometimes squatted if the 
authorities would allow them, especially after the 
annual fair. And it was after the fair that Jack- 
anapes, out rambling by himself, was knocked over 
by the gypsy’s son riding the gypsy’s red-haired pony 
at break-neck pace across the common. 

Jackanapes got up and shook himself, none the 
worse, except for being heels over head in love 
with the red-haired pony. What a rate he went at ! 
How he spurned the ground with his nimble feet ! 
How his red coat shone in the sunshine ! And what 
bright eyes peeped out of his dark forelock as it was 
blown by the wind ! 

The gypsy boy had had a fright, and he was will- 
ing enough to reward Jackanapes for not having 
been hurt, by consenting to let him have a ride. 

“ Do you mean to kill the little fine gentleman, 


168 


JACKANAPES . 


and swing us all on the gibbet, you rascal ? ” 
screamed the gypsy-mother, who came up just as 
Jackanapes and the pony set off. 

“ He would get on,” replied her son. “ It'll not 
kill him. He’ll fall on his yellow head, and it’s as 
tough as a cocoanut.” 

But Jackanapes did not fall. He stuck to the 
red-haired pony as he had stuck to the hobby-horse ; 
but, oh, how different the delight of this wild gallop 
with flesh and blood! Just as his legs were begin- 
ning to feel as if he did not feel them, the gypsy boy 
cried “ Lollo ! ” Bound went the pony so uncere- 
moniously, that, with as little ceremony, Jackanapes 
clung to his neck, and he did not properly recover 
himself before Lollo stopped with a jerk at the 
place where they had started. 

“Is his name Lollo?” asked Jackanapes, his hand 
lingering in the wiry mane. 

“ Yes.” 

“ What does Lollo mean ? ” 

“Red.” 

“ Is Lollo your pony ? ” 

“Ho. My father’s.” And the gypsy boy led 
Lollo away. 

At the first opportunity Jackanapes stole away 
again to the common. This time he saw the gypsy 
father, smoking a dirty pipe. 


JACKANAPES. 


169 


“ Lollo is your pony, isn’t he ? ” said Jackanapes. 

“ Yes.” 

“ He’s a very nice one.” 

u He’s a racer.” 

“ You don’t want to sell him, do you ? ” 

“Fifteen pounds,” said the gypsy father; and 
Jackanapes sighed and went home again. That 
very afternoon he and Tony rode the two donkeys, 
and Tony managed to get thrown, and even Jacka- 
napes’ donkey kicked. But it was jolting, clumsy 
work after the elastic swiftness and the dainty mis- 
chief of the red-haired pony. 

A few days later Miss Jessamine spoke very seri- 
ously to Jackanapes. She was a good deal agitated 
as she told him that his grandfather the general 
was coming to the Green, and that he must be on 
his very best behavior during the visit. If it had 
been feasible to leave off calling him Jackanapes 
and to get used to his baptismal name of Theodore 
before the day after to-morrow (when the general 
was due), it would have been satisfactory. But 
Miss Jessamine feared it would be impossible in 
practice, and she had scruples about it on principle. 
It would not seem quite truthful, although she had 
always most fully intended that he should be called 
Theodore when he had outgrown the ridiculous ap- 
propriateness of his nickname. The fact was that 


170 


JACKANAPES 


he had not outgrown it, but he must take care to re* 
member who was meant when his grandfather said 
Theodore. 

Indeed for that matter he must take care all 
along. , 

“You are apt to be giddy, Jackanapes,’ 5 said Miss 
Jessamine. 

“Yes, aunt,” said Jackanapes, thinking of the 
hobby-horses. 

“ You are a good boy, Jackanapes. Thank God, 
I can tell your grandfather that. An obedient boy, 
an honorable boy, and a kind-hearted boy. But 
you are — in short, you are a boy, Jackanapes. And 
I hope” — added Miss Jessamine, desperate with the 
results of experience — “that the general knows that 
boys will be boys.” 

What mischief could be foreseen, Jackanapes 
promised to guard against. He was to keep his 
clothes and his hands clean, to look over his cat- 
echism, not to put sticky things in his pockets, to 
keep that hair of his smooth — (“ It’s the wind that 
blows it, aunty,” said Jackanapes — “I’ll send by 
the coach for some bear’s-grease,” said Miss Jessa- 
mine, tying a knot in her pocket-handkerchief) — 
not to burst in at the parlor door, not to talk at the 
top of his voice, not to crumble his Sunday frill, and 
to sit quite quiet during the sermon, to be sure to 


JACKANAPES. 


171 


say “ sir ” to the general, to be careful about rub* 
bing his shoes on the door-mat, and to bring his 
lesson-books to his aunt at once that she might iron 
down the dog’s ears. The general arrived, and for 
the first day all went well, except that Jackanapes’ 



hair was as wild as usual, for the hairdresser had no 
bear’s grease left. He began to feel more at ease 
with his grandfather, and disposed to talk confiden- 
tially with him, as he did with the postman. All 
that the general felt it would take too long to tell, 
but the result was the same. He was disposed to 
talk confidentially with Jackanapes. 



172 


JACKANAPES. 


“Mons’ous pretty place this,” he said looking out 
of the lattice on to the green, where the grass was 
vivid with sunset, and the shadows were long and 
peaceful. 

“You should see it in fair- week, sir,” said Jacka- 
napes, shaking his yellow mop, and leaning back in 
his one of the two Chippendale armchairs in which 
they sat. 

“ A fine time that, eh?” said the general, with a 
twinkle in his left eye. (The other was glass.) 

Jackanapes shook his hair once more. “ I enjoyed 
this last one the best of all,” he said. “ I’d so 
much money.” 

“By George, it’s not a common complaint in 
these bad times. How much had ye ? ” 

“ I’d two shillings. A new shilling aunty gave 
me, and eleven pence I had saved up, and a penny 
from the postman — sir ! ” added Jackanapes with 
a jerk, having forgotten it. 

“ And how did ye spend it — sir ? ” inquired the 
general. 

Jackanapes spread his ten fingers on the arms of 
his chair, and shut his eyes that he might count the 
more conscientiously. 

“Watch-stand for aunty, threepence. Trumpet 
for myself, twopence, that’s fivepenee. Ginger nuts 
for Tony, twopence, and a mug with a grenadier on 


JACKANAPES. 


173 


for the postman, fourpence, that’s elevenpence. 
Shooting gallery a penny, that’s a shilling. Giddy- 
go-round, a penny, that’s one and a penny. Treat- 
ing Tony, one and twopence. Flying boats (Tony 
paid for himself), a penny, one and threepence. 
Shooting gallery again, one and fourpence. Fat 
woman a penny, one and fivepence. Giddy-go- 
round again, one and sixpence. Shooting gallery, 
one and sevenpence. Treating Tony, and then he 
wouldn’t shoot so I did, one and eightpence. Liv- 
ing skeleton, a penny — no, Tony treated me, the 
living skeleton doesn’t count. Skittles, a penny, 
one and ninepence. Mermaid (but when we got 
inside she was dead), a penny, one and tenpence. 
Theater, a penny (Priscilla Partington, or the 
Green Lane Murder. A beautiful young lady, sir, 
with pink cheeks and a real pistol), that’s one and 
elevenpence. Ginger beer, a penny (I was so 
thirsty !) two shillings. And then the shooting 
gallery man gave me a turn for nothing, because, 
he said, I was a real gentleman, and spent my 
money like a man.” 

“ So you do, sir, so you do ! ” cried the general. 
“ Why, sir, you spend it like a prince. And 
now I suppose you’ve not got a penny in your 
pocket ? ” 

“Yes I have,” said Jackanapes. “Two pennies. 


174 


JA CKANAPKS. 


They are saving up. ’’And Jacknapes jingled them 
with his hand. 

“ You don’t want money except at fair times, I 
suppose,” said the general. 

Jackanapes shook his mop. 

“ If I could have as much as I want, I should 
know what to buy,” said he. 

“ And how much do you want, if you could get 
it?” 

“Wait a minute, sir, till I think what twopence 
from fifteen pounds leaves. Two from nothing you 
can’t, but borrow twelve. Twos from twelve, 
ten, and carry one. Please remember ten, sir, when 
I ask you. One from nothing you can’t, borrow 
twenty. One from twenty, nineteen, and carry 
one. One from fifteen, fourteen. Fourteen pounds 
nineteen and — what did I tell you to remember ? ” 

“ Ten,” said the general. 

“Fourteen pounds nineteen shillings and ten- 
pence then, is what I want,” said Jackanapes. 

“ Bless my soul, what for ? ” 

“ To buy Lollo with. Lollo means red, sir. The 
gypsy’s red-haired pony, sir. Oh, he is beautiful ! 
You should see his coat in the sunshine ! You 
should see his mane ! You should see his tail ! 
Such little feet, sir, and they go like lightning t 
Such a dear face, too, and eyes like a mouse ? But 


JACKANAPES. 


175 


he’s a racer, and the gypsy wants fifteen pounds for 
him.” 

“ If he’s a racer, you couldn’t ride him. Could 
you ? ” 

“ No — o, sir, but I can stick to him. I did the 
other day.” 

“You did, did you? Well, I’m fond of riding 
myself, and if the beast is as good as you say, he 
might suit me.” 

“You’re too tall for Lollo, I think,” said Jacka- 
napes, measuring his grandfather with his eye. 

“I can double up my legs, I suppose. We’ll 
have a look at him to-morrow.” 

“Don’t you weigh a good deal?” asked Jacka- 
napes. 

“ Chiefly waistcoats,” said the general, slapping 
the breast of his military frock-coat. “We’ll have 
the little racer on the Green the first thing in the 
morning. Glad you mentioned it, grandson. Glad 
you mentioned it.” 

The general was as good as his word. Next 
morning the gypsy and Lollo, Miss Jessamine, 
Jackanapes and his grandfather and his dog Spit- 
fire, were all gathered at one end of the Green in a 
group, which so aroused the innocent curiosity of 
Mrs. Johnson, as she saw it from one of her upper 
windows, that she and the children took their early 


176 


JACKANAPES. 


promenade rather earlier than usual. The general 
talked to the gypsy, and Jackanapes fondled Lollo’s 
mane, and did not know whether he should be 
more glad or miserable if his grandfather bought 
him. 



“ Jackanapes ! ” 

“ Yes, sir ! ” 

“ I’ve bought Lollo, but I believe you were right. 
He hardly stands high enough for me. If you can 
ride him to the other end of the Green, I’ll give 
him to you.” 

How J ackanapes tumbled on to Lollo’s back he 
never knew. He had just gathered up the reins 
when the gypsy father took him by the arm. 

“ If you want to make Lollo go fast, my little 
gentleman ” 



JACKANAPES. 


177 


u 1 can make him go!” said Jackanapes, and 
drawing from his pocket the trumpet he had bought 
in the fair, he blew a blast both loud and shrill. 

Away went Lollo, and away went Jackanapes’ 
hat. His golden hair flew out, an aureole from 
which his cheeks shone red and distended with 
trumpeting. Away went Spitfire, mad with the 
rapture of the race, and the wind In his silky ears. 
Away went the geese, the cocks, the hens and the 
whole family of Johnsons. Lucy clung to her 
mamma, Jane saved Emily by the gathers of her 
gown, and Tony saved himself by a somersault. 

The Gray Goose was just returning when Jacka- 
napes and Lollo rode back, Spitfire panting behind. 

“ Good, my little gentleman, good ! ” said the 
gypsy ; “You were born to the saddle. You’ve 
the flat thigh, the strong knee, the wiry back, and 
the light caressing hand, all you want is to learn 
the whisper. Come here ! ” 

“ What was that dirty fellow talking about, 
grandson ? ” asked the general. 

“ I can’t tell you, sir. It’s a secret.” 

They were sitting in the window again, in the 
two Chippendale armchairs, the general devouring 
every line of his grandson’s face, with strange 
spasms crossing his own. 

“ You must love your aunt very much, Jacka- 
napes ? ” 


178 


JACKANAPES. 


“ I do sir,” said Jackanapes warmly. 

“And whom do you love next best to your 
aunt ? ” 

The ties of blood were pressing very strongly on 
the general himself, and perhaps he thought of 
Lollo. But love is not bought in a day, even with 
fourteen pounds nineteen shillings and tenpence. 
Jackanapes answered quite readily, “ The post- 
man.” 

“ Why the postman ? ” 

“ He lmew my father,” said Jackanapes, “ and he 
tells me about him, and about his black mare. My 
father was a soldier, a brave soldier. He died at 
Waterloo. When I grow up I want to be a soldier 
too.” 

“ So you shall, my boy. So you shall.” 

“ Thank you, grandfather. Aunty doesn’t want 
me to be a soldier for fear of being killed.” 

“ Bless my life ! Would she have you get into a 
feather-bed and stay there ? Why, you might be 
killed by a thunderbolt, if you were a butter-mer- 
chant ! ” 

“ So I might. I shall tell her so. What 'a funny 
fellow you are, sir ! I say, do you think my father 
knew the gypsy’s secret ? The postman says he 
used to whisper to his black mare.” 

“ Your father was taught to ride as a child, by one 


JACKANAPES. 


179 


of those horsemen of the east who swoop and dart 
and wheel about a plain like swallows in autumn. 
Grandson ! Love me a little too. I can tell you 
more about your father than the postman can.” 

“ I do love you,” said J ackanapes. “ Before you 
came I was frightened. I’d no notion you were so 
nice.” 

“ Love me always, boy, whatever I do or leave 
undone. And — God help me — whatever you do or 
leave undone, I’ll love you ! There shall never be 
a cloud between us for a day ; no, sir, not for an 
hour. We’re imperfect enough, all of us, we needn’t 
be so bitter ; and life is uncertain enough at its 
safest, we needn’t waste its opportunities. Look at 
me ! Here sit I, after a dozen battles and some of 
the worst climates in the world, and by yonder lych 
gate lies your mother, who didn’t move five miles, I 
suppose, from your aunt’s apron-strings — dead in 
her teens ; my golden-haired daughter, whom I 
never saw.” 

Jackanapes was terribly troubled. 

“ Don’t cry, grandfather,” he pleaded, his own 
blue eyes round with tears. “ I will love you very 
much, and I will try to be good. But I should like 
to be a soldier.” 

“ You shall, my boy, you shall. You’ve more 
claims for a commission than you know of. Cav- 


180 


JACKANAPES. 


airy, I suppose, eh, ye young Jackanapes? Well, 
well ; if you live to be an honor to your country, 
this old heart shall grow young again with pride 
for you; and if you die in the service of your 
country — God bless me, it can but break for ye ! ” 
And beating the region which he said was all 
waistcoats, as if they stifled him, the old man got 
up and strode out on to the Green. 


JACKANAPES. 


181 


CHAPTER IV. 


“ Greater love hath no man than this, that a man laydown 
his life for his friends.”— John xv. 13. 



WENTY and odd years later the Gray 
Goose was still alive, and in full posses' 
sion of her faculties, such as they were. She lived 
slowly and carefully, and she lived long. So did 
Miss Jessamine ; but the general was dead. 

He had lived on the Green for many years, dur- 
ing which he and the postman saluted each other 


182 


JACKANAPES. 


with a punctiliousness that it almost drilled one to 
witness. He would have completely spoiled Jacka- 
napes if Miss Jessamine’s conscience would have let 
him ; otherwise he somewhat dragooned his neigh- 
bors, and was as positive about parish matters as a 
ratepayer about the army. A stormy-tempered, 
tender-hearted soldier, irritable with the suffering of 
wounds of which he never spoke, whom all the 
village followed to his grave with tears. 

The general’s death was a great shock to Miss 
Jessamine, and her nephew stayed with her for some 
little time after the funeral. Then he was obliged 
to join his regiment, which was ordered abroad. 

One effect of the conquest which the general had 
gained over the affections of the village, was a con- 
siderable abatement of the popular prejudice against 
“ the military.” Indeed the village was now some- 
what importantly represented in the army. There 
was the general himself, and the postman, and the 
Black Captain’s tablet in the church, and Jackanapes, 
and Tony Johnson, and a trumpeter. 

Tony Johnson had no more natural taste for 
fighting than for riding, but he was as devoted as 
ever to Jackanapes, and that was how it came about 
that Mr. Johnson bought him a commission in the 
same cavalry regiment that the general’s grandson 
(whose commission had been given him by the Iron 


JACKANAPES. 


183 


Duke) was in, and that he was quite content to be 
the butt of the mess where Jackanapes was the hero ; 
and that when Jackanapes wrote home to Miss 
Jessamine, Tony wrote with the same purpose to his 
mother ; namely, to demand her congratulations 
that they were on active service at last, and were 
ordered to the front. And he added a postscript to 
the effect that she could have no idea how popular 
Jackanapes was, nor how splendidly he rode the 
wonderful red charger whom he had named after 
his old friend Lollo. 


“ Sound Retire ! ” 

A boy trumpeter, grave with the weight of re- 
sponsibilities and accoutrements beyond his years, 
and stained, so that his own mother would not have 
known him, with the sweat and dust of battle, did 
as he was bid ; and then pushing his trumpet pet- 
tishly aside, adjusted his weary legs for the hun- 
dredth time to the horse which was a world too 
big for him, and muttering, “ ’Taint a pretty tune,” 
tried to see something of this, his first engagement, 
before it came to an end. 

Being literally in the thick of it, he could hardly 
have seen less or known less of what happened in 
that particular skirmish if he had been at home in 


184 


JACKANAPES. 


England. For many good reasons ; including dust 
and smoke, and that what attention he dared dis- 
tract from his commanding officer was pretty w T ell 
absorbed by keeping his hard-mouthed troop-horse 
in hand, under pain of execration by his neighbors 
in the melee. By-and-by, when the newspapers 


came out, if he could get a look at one before it was 
thumbed to bits, he would learn that the enemy had 
appeared from ambush in overwhelming num- 
bers, and that orders had been given to fall back, 
which was done slowly and in good order, the men 
fighting as they retired. 

Born and bred on the Goose Green, the youngest 
of Mr. Johnson’s gardener’s numerous offspring, the 



JACKANAPES. 


185 


boy had given his family “ no peace ” till they let 
him “go for a soldier” with Master Tony and 
Master Jackanapes. They consented at last, with 
more tears than they shed when an elder son was 
sent to jail for poaching, and the boy was perfectly 
happy in his life, and full of esprit de corps. It 
was this which had been wounded by having to 
sound retreat for “ the young gentlemen’s regiment,” 
the first time he served with it before the enemy, 
and he was also harassed by having completely lost 
sight of Master Tony. There had been some hard 
fighting before the backward movement began, and 
he had caught sight of him once, but not since. 
On the other hand, all the pulses of his village pride 
had been stirred by one or two visions of Master 
Jackanapes whirling about on his wonderful horse. 
He had been easy to distinguish, since an eccentric 
blow had bared his head without hurting it, for his 
close golden mop of hair gleamed in the hot sun- 
shine as brightly as the steel of the sword flashing 
round it. 

Of the missiles that fell pretty thickly, the boy 
trumpeter did not take much notice. First, one 
can’t attend to everything, and his hands 
were full. Secondly, one gets used to 
anything. Thirdly, experience soon teaches 
one, in spite of proverbs, how very few 


186 


JACKANAPES. 


bullets find their billet. Far more unnerving is the 
mere suspicion of fear or even of anxiety in the 
human mass around you. The boy was beginning 
to wonder if there were any dark reason for the in- 
creasing pressure, and whether they would be 
allowed to move back more quickly, when the 
smoke in front lifted for a moment, and he could 
see the plain, and the enemy’s line some two hun- 
yards away. 

And across the plain between them, he saw 
Master Jackanapes galloping alone at the top of 
Lollo’s speed, their faces to the enemy, his golden 
head at Lollo’s ear. 

But at this moment noise and smoke seemed to 
burst out on every side, the officer shouted to him 
to sound retire, and between trumpeting and bump- 
ing about on his horse, he saw and heard no more 
of the incidents of his first battle. 

Tony Johnson was always unlucky with horses, 
from the days of the giddy-go-round onward. On 
this day— of all days in the year — his own horse 
was on the sick list, and he had to ride an inferior, 
ill-conditioned beast, and fell off that, at the very 
moment when it was a matter of life or death to be 
able to ride away. The horse fell on him, but 
struggled up again, and Tony managed to keep 
hold of it. It was in trying to remount that he 


JACKANAPES. 


187 


discovered, by helplessness and anguish, that one of 
his legs was crushed and broken, and that no feat 
of which he was master would get him into the 
saddle. Notable even to stand alone, awkwardly, 
agonizingly unable to mount his restive horse, his 
life was yet so strong within him ! And on one 
side of him rolled the dust and smoke-cloud of his 
advancing foes, and on the other, that which 
covered his retreating friends. 

He turned one piteous gaze after them, with a 
bitter twinge, not of reproach, but of loneliness ; 
and then, dragging himself up by the side of his 
horse, he turned the other way and drew out his 
pistol, and waited for the end. Whether he waited 
seconds or minutes he never knew, before some one 
gripped him by the arm. 

“ Jackanapes. ! GOD lless you ! It’s my left leg. 
If you could get me on ” 

It was like Tony’s luck that his pistol went off at 
his horse’s tail, and made it plunge; but Jackanapes 
threw him across the saddle. 

“ Hold on anyhow, and stick your spur in. I’ll 
lead him. Keep your head down, they’re firing 
high.” 

And Jackanapes laid his head down — to Lollo’s 
ear. 

It was when they were fairly off, that a sudden 


188 


JACKANAPES. 


upspringing of the enemy in all directions had made 
it necessary to change the gradual retirement of 
our force into as rapid a retreat as possible. And 
when Jackanapes became aware of this, and felt 
the lagging and swerving of Tony’s horse, he began 
to wish he had thrown his friend across his own 
saddle, and left their lives to Lollo. 

When Tony became aware of it, several things 
came into his head. 1. That the dangers of their 
ride for life were now more than doubled. 2. That 
if Jackanapes and Lollo were not burdened with 
him they would undoubtedly escape. 3. That 
Jackanapes’ life was infinitely valuable, and his — 
Tony’s — was not. 4. That this — if he could seize it 
— was the supremest of all the moments in which 
he had tried to assume the virtues which Jacka- 
napes had by nature ; and that if he could be 
courageous and unselfish now 

He caught at his own reins and spoke very loud: 

“Jackanapes! It won’t do. You and Lollo 
must go on. Tell the fellows I gave you back to 
them, with all my heart. Jackanapes, if you love 
me, leave me ! ” 

There was a daffodil light over the evening sky 
in front of them, and it shone strangely on Jacka- 
napes’ hair and face. He turned with an odd look 
in his eyes that a vainer man than Tony Johnson 


JACKANAPES. 


189 


might have taken for brotherly pride. Then he 
shook his mop, and laughed at him. 



“leave you f To save my skin? No, Tony, 
not to save my soul l ” 


190 


JACKANAPES. 


CHAPTER V. 

Mr. Valiant summoned. His will. His last words. 

Then, said he, “I am going to my Father’s. ... My 
sword I give to him that shall succeed me in my pilgrimage, 
and my courage and skill to him that can get it.” . . . And as 
he went down deeper, he said, “Grave, where is thy victory?” 

So he passed over, and all the trumpets sounded for him on 
the other side. 

— Bunyan’s Pilgrim's Progress. 

OMING out of a hos- 
pital-tent, at headquar- 
ters, the surgeon can- 
noned against, and 
rebounded from, another 
officer; a sallow man, 
not young, with a face 
worn more by ungentle 
experiences than by age, 
with weary eyes that 
kept their own counsel; 
iron-gray hair, and a mustache that was as if a 
raven had laid its wing across his lips and sealed 
them. 



JACKANAPES. 


191 


“ Well?” 

“ Beg pardon, major. Didn’t see you. Oh, com- 
pound fracture and bruises, but it’s all right. He’ll 
pull through.” 

“ Thank God.” 

It was probably an involuntary expression, for 
prayer and praise were not much in the major’s line, 
as a jerk of the surgeon’s head would have betrayed 
to an observer. He was a bright little man, with 
his feelings showing all over him, but with gallan- 
try and contempt of death enough for both sides of 
his profession ; who took a cool head, a white hand- 
kerchief and a case of instruments, where other 
men went hot-blooded with weapons, and who was 
the biggest gossip, male or female, of the regiment. 
Hot even the major’s taciturnity daunted him. 

“ Didn’t think he’d as much pluck about him as 
he has. He’ll do all right if he doesn’t fret himself 
into a fever about poor Jackanapes.” 

“ Whom are you talking about ? ” asked the 
major hoarsely. 

“ Young Johnson. He ” 

“What about Jackanapes ?” 

“ Don’t you know ? Sad business. Rode back 
for Johnson, and brought him in ; but, monstrous 
ill-luck, hit as they rode. Left lung ” 

“ W ill he recover ? ” 


192 


JACKANAPES. 


“ No. Sad business. What a frame — what limbs 
— what health — and what good looks ! Finest young 

fellow ” 

“Where is he?” 

“ In his own tent,” said the surgeon sadly. 

The major wheeled and left him. 


“ Can I do anything else for you ? ” 

“ Nothing, thank you. Except — major ! I wish 
I could get you to appreciate Johnson.” 

“ This is not an easy moment, Jackanapes.” 

“ Let me tell you, sir — he never will — that if he 
could have driven me from him, he would be lying 
yonder at this moment, and I should be safe and 
sound.” 

The major laid his hand over his mouth, as if to 
keep back a wish he would have been ashamed to 
utter. 

“ I’ve known old Tony from a child. He’s a 
fool on impulse, a good man and a gentleman in 
principle. And he acts on principle, which it’s not 
every — some water, please ! Thank you, sir. It’s 
very hot, and yet one’s feet get uncommonly cold. 
Oh, thank you, thank you. He’s no fire-eater, but 
he has a trained conscience and a tender heart, and 
he’ll do his duty when a braver and more selfish 


JACKANAPES. 


193 


man might fail you. But he wants encouragement ; 
and when I’m gone ” 

“He shall have encouragement. You have my 
word for it. Can -I do nothing else ? ” 

“ Yes, major. A favor.” 

“ Thank you, Jackanapes.” 

“ Be Lollo’s master, and love him as well as you 
can. He’s used to it.” 

“ Wouldn’t you rather Johnson had him ? ” 

The blue eyes twinkled in spite of mortal pain. 

“Tony rides on principle, major. His legs are 
bolsters, and will be to the end of the chapter. I 
couldn’t insult dear Lollo, but if you don’t 
care ” 

“ While I live — which will be longer than I 
desire or deserve — Lollo shall want nothing, but — 
you. I have too little tenderness for — my dear 
boy, you’re faint. Can you spare me for a 
moment ? ” 

“ Ho, stay — major ! ” 

“ What ? What ? ” 

“ My head drifts so — if you wouldn’t mind.” 

“Yes! Yes!” 

“ Say a prayer by me. Out loud please, I am 
getting deaf.” 

“My dearest Jackanapes — my dear boy ” 

“ One of the church prayers — parade service, 
you know ” 


194 


JACKANAPES. 


“ I see. But the fact is — God forgive me, Jacka- 
napes — I’m a very different sort of a fellow to some 
of you youngsters. Look here, let me fetch ” 

But Jackanape’s hand was in his, and it wouldn’t 
let go. 

There wa,s a brief and bitter silence. 

“ ’ Pon my soul I can only remember the little 
one at the end.” 

“ Please,” whispered Jackanapes. 

Pressed by the conviction that what little he 
could do it was his duty to do, the major — kneel- 
ing — bared his head, and spoke loudly, clearly, and 
very reverently : 

“The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ ” 

Jackanapes moved his left hand to his right one, 
which still held the major’s : 

“ The love of God.” 

And with that — Jackanapes died. 


JA0KANAPE8. 


195 


CHAPTER YI. 

“Und so ist der blaue Himmel 
grosser als jedes Gewolk darin, und 
dauerhafter dazu.” 

— Jean Paul Richter. 


ACK AH APES’ death was sad news 
for the Goose Green, a sorrow 
just qualified by honorable pride 
in his gallantry and devotion. 
Only the cobbler dissented, but 
that was his way. He said he 
saw nothing in it but foolhardiness and vainglory. 
They might both have been killed, as easy as not, 
and then where would you have been ? A man’s life 
was a man’s life, and one life was as good as another. 
No one would catch him throwing his away. And, 
for that matter, Mrs. Johnson could spare a child a 
great deal better than Miss Jessamine. 

But the parson preached Jackanapes’ funeral 
sermon on the text, “ Whosoever will save his life 
shall lose it ; and whosoever will lose his life for 



166 


JACKANAPES. 


My sake shall find it ; ” and all the village went 
and wept to hear him. 

N or did Miss Jessamine see her loss from the 
cobbler’s point of view. On the contary, Mrs. John- 
son said she never to her dying day should forget 
how, when she went to condole with her, the old 
lady came forward, with gentlewomanly self-con- 
trol, and kissed her, and thanked God that her dear 
nephew’s effort had been blessed with success, and 
that this sad war had made no gap in her friend’s 
large and happy home circle. 

“ But she’s a noble unselfish woman,” sobbed Mrs. 
Johnson, “and she taught Jackanapes to be the 
same, and that’s how it is that my Tony has been 
spared to me. And it must be sheer goodness in 
Miss Jessamine, for what can she know of a 
mother’s feelings ? And I’m sure most people seem 
to think that if you’ve a large family you don’t 
know one from the another any more than they do, 
and that a lot of children are like a lot of store- 
apples, if one’s taken it won’t be missed.” 

Lollo — the first Lollo, the gypsy’s Lollo — very 
aged, draws Miss Jessamine’s bath-chair slowly up 
and down the Goose Green in the sunshine. 

The ex-postman walks beside him, which Lollo 
tolerates to the level of his shoulder. If the post- 
man advances any nearer to his head, Lollo quickens 


JACKANAPES. 


197 


his pace, and were the postman to persist in tbc- 
in judicious attempt, there is, as Miss Jessamine says, 
no knowing what might happen. 

In the opinion of the Goose Green, Miss Jessa- 
mine has borne her troubles “ wonderfully.’’ In- 
deed, to-day, some of the less delicate and less 



intimate of those who see everything from the 
upper windows, say (well behind her back) that 
“the old lady seems quite lively with her military 
beaux again.” 

The meaning of this is, that Captain Johnson is 
leaning over one side of her chair, while by the 
other bends a brother officer who is staying with 
him, and who has manifested an extraordinary in- 
terest in Lollo. He bends lower and loAver, and 


198 


JACKANAPES. 


Miss Jessamine calls to the postman to request 
Lollo to he kind enough to stop, while she is fum- 
bling for something which always hangs by her side, 
and has got entangled with her spectacles. 

It is a twopenny trumpet, bought years ago in 
the village fair, and over it she and Captain John- 
son tell, as best they can, between them, the story 
of Jackanapes’ ride across the Goose Green; and 
how he won Lollo — the gypsy’s Lollo — the racer 
Lollo — dear Lollo — faithful Lollo — Lollo the never 
vanquished — Lollo the tender servant of his old 
mistress. And Lollo’s ears twitch at every mention 
of his name. 

Their hearer does not speak, but he never moves 
his eyes from the trumpet, and when the tale is 
told, he lifts Miss Jessamine’s hand and presses his 
heavy black mustache in silence to her trembling 
fingers. 

The sun, setting gently to his rest, embroiders 
the somber foliage of the oak tree with threads of 
gold. The Gray Goose is sensible of an atmosphere 
of repose, and puts up one leg for the night. The 
grass glows with a more vivid green, and, in answer 
to a ringing call from Tony, his sisters, fluttering 
over the daisies in pale-hued muslins, come out of 
their ever-open door, like pretty pigeons from a 
dovecote. 


JACKANAPES. 


199 


And, if the good gossips’ eyes do not deceive 
them, all the Miss Johnsons, and both the officers 
go wandering off into the lanes, where bryony 
wreaths still twine about the brambles. 


A sorrowful story and ending badly ? 



Nay, Jackanapes, for the end is not yet. 

A life wasted that might have been useful ? 

Men who have died for men, in all ages, forgive 
the thought ! 

There is a heritage of heroic example and noble 
obligation, not reckoned in the wealth of nations, 
but essential to a nation’s life; the contempt of 


200 


JACKANAPES. 


which, in any people, may, not slowly, mean even 
its commercial fall. 

Very sweet are the uses of prosperity, the har- 
vests of peace and progress, the fostering sunshine 
of health and happiness and length of days in the 
land. 

But there be things — oh, sons of what has de- 
served the name of Great Britain, forget it not ! — 
“the good of” which and “the use of” which are 
beyond all calculation of wordly goods and earthly 
uses : things such as love and honor, and the soul 
of man, which cannot be bought with a price, and 
which do not die with death. And they who would 
fain live happily ever after, should not leave these 
things out of the lessons of their lives. 


DADDY DARWIN’S DOVECOT. 
















' 
















Daddy Darwin’s Dovecot. 


PKEAMBLE. 

A summer’s afternoon. Early in the summer, and 
late in the afternoon ; with odors and colors deep- 
ening, and shadows lengthening, toward evening. 

Two gaffers gossiping, seated side by side upon a 
Yorkshire wall. A wall of sandstone of many 
colors, glowing redder and yellower as the sun goes 
down ; well cushioned with moss and lichen, and 
deep set in rank grass on this side, where the path 
runs, and in blue hyacinths on that side, where the 
wood is, and where — on the gray and still naked 
branches of young oaks — sit divers crows, not less 
solemn than the gaffers, and also gossiping. 

One gaffer in work-day clothes, not unpicturesque 
of form and hue. Gray, home-knit stockings, and 
coat and knee-breeches of corduroy, which takes 
tints from time and weather as harmoniously as 
wooden palings do; so that field laborers (like 
some insects) seem to absorb or mimic the colors of 
the vegetation round them and of their native soil. 


204 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 


That is, on work-days. Sunday -best is a different 
matter, and in this the other gaffer was clothed. 
He was dressed like the crows above him, fit 
excepted: the reason for which was, that he was 
only a visitor, a re-visitor to the home of his youth, 
and wore his Sunday (and funeral) suit to mark the 
holiday. 

Continuing the path, a stone pack-horse track, 
leading past a hedge snowwhite with may, and 
down into a little wood, from the depths of which 
one could hear a brook babbling. Then up across 
the sunny field beyond, and yet up over another field 
to where the brow of the hill is* crowned by old 
farm -buildings standing against the sky. 

Down this stone path a young man going whis- 
tling home to tea.^ Then staying to bend a swarthy 
face to the white may to smell it, and then plucking 
a huge branch on which the blossoms lie like a heavy 
fall of snow, and throwing that aside for a better, 
and tearing off another and yet another, with the 
prodigal recklessness of a pauper ; and so, whistling, 
on into the wood with his arms full. 

Down the sunny field, as he goes up it, a woman 
coming to meet him — with Alarms full. Filled by 
a child with a may-white frock, and hair shining 
with the warm colors of the sandstone. A young 
woman, having a fair forehead visible a long way 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 


205 


off, and buxom cheeks, and steadfast eyes. When 
they meet he kisses her, and she pulls his dark hair 
and smooths her own, and cuffs him in country 
fashion. Then they change burdens, and she takes 
the may into her apron (stooping to pick up fallen 
bits), and the child sits on the man’s shoulder, and 
cuffs and lugs its father as the mother did, and is 
chidden by her and kissed by him. And all the 
babbling of their chiding and crowing and laughter 
comes across the babbling of the brook to the ears 
of the old gaffers gossiping on the wall. 

Gaffer I. spits out an over-munched stalk of 
meadow soft grass, and speaks : 

“ D’ye see yon chap ? ” 

Gaffer II. takes up his hat and wipes it round 
with a spotted handkerchief (for your Sunday hat 
is a heating thing for work-day wear) and puts it 
on, and makes reply : 

“ Ay. But he beats me. And — see thee ! — he’s 
t’ first that’s beat me yet. Why, lad ! I’ve met 
young chaps to-day I could ha’ sworn to for mates 
of mine forty year back — if I hadn’t ha’ been i’ t’ 
churchyard spelling over their fathers’ tumstuns ! ” 

“ Ay. There’s a many old standards gone home 
o’ lately.” 

“What do they call him?” 

“T’young chap?” 


206 


DADDY DARWIN’S DOVECOT. 


“ Ay.” 

“ They call him — Darwin. 

“Dar — win? I should know a Darwin. They’re 
old standards, is Darwins. What’s he to Daddy 
Darwin of t’ Dovecot yonder ? ” 

“ He owns t’ Dovecot. Did ye see t’ lass ? ” 

“ Ay. Shoo’s his missus, I reckon ? ” 

“ Ay.” 

“ What did they call her ? ” 

“ Phoebe Shaw they call her. And if she’d been 
my Jass — but that’s nother here nor there, and he’s 
got t’ Dovecot.” 

“ Shaw ? ” They're old standards, is Shaws. 
Phoebe ? They called her mother Phoebe. Phoebe 
Johnson. She were a dainty lass! My father were 
very fond of Phoebe Johnson. He said she alius 
put him i’ mind of our orchard on drying days ; pink 
and white apple-blossom and clean clothes. And 
yon’s her daughter ? Where d’ye say t’young chap 
come from ? He don’t look like hereabouts.” 

“ He don’t come from hereabouts. And yet he 
do come from hereabouts, as one may say. Look 
ye here. He come from t’ wukhus. That’s the 
short and the long of it.” 

“ The workhouse ? ” 

“ Ay.” 

Stupefaction. The crows chattering wildly over- 
head. 


BADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT \ 


207 


“ And he owns Darwin’s Dovecot ? ” 

“ He owns Darwin’s Dovecot.” 

“ And how i’ t’ name o’ all things did that come 
about ? ” 

“ Why, I’ll tell thee. It was i’ this fashion.” 


Hot without reason does the wary writer put gos- 
sip in the mouths of gaffers rather than of gammers. 
Male gossips love scandal as dearly as female gossips 
do, and they bring to it the stronger relish and 
energies of their sex. But these were country 
gaffers, whose speech — like shadows — grows 
lengthy in the leisurely hours of eventide. The 
gentle reader shall have the tale in plain narration. 

Note. — I t will be plain to the reader that the birds here 
described are rooks (corvus frugilegus). I have allowed my- 
self to speak of them by their generic or family name of crow, 
this being a common country practice. The genus corvus , or 
crow, includes the raven, the carrion crow, the hooded 
crow, the jackdaw, and the rook. 


208 


DADDY DARWIN \ S DOVECOT. 


SCENE I. 

One Saturday night (some eighteen years earlier 
than the date of this gaffer-gossiping) the parson’s 
daughter sat in her own room before the open 
drawer of a bandy-legged black oak table, balancing 
her bags. The bags were money-bags, and the mat- 
ter shall be made clear at once. 

In this parish, as in others, progress and the 
multiplication of weapons with which civilization 
and the powers of goodness push their conquests 
over brutality and the powers of evil, had added to 
the original duties of the parish priest, a multifari- 
ous and all but impracticable variety of offices ; 
'which, in ordinary and laic conditions, would have 
been performed by several more or less salaried 
clerks, bankers, accountants, secretaries, librarians, 
club-committees, teachers, lecturers, discount for 
ready-money dealers in clothing, boots, blankets, 
and coal, domestic-servant agencies, caterers for the 
public amusement, and preservers of the public 
peace. 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 


209 


The country parson (no less than statesmen and 
princes, than men of science and of letters) is respon- 
sible for a great deal of his work that is really done 
by the help-mate — woman. This explains why five 
out of the young lady’s money-bags bore the follow- 
ing inscriptions in marking-ink : “ Savings’ bank,” 
“ Clothing club,” “ Library,” “ Magazines and hymn 
books,” “ Three-halfpenny club ” — and only three 
bore reference to private funds, as — “ House- 
money ” — “ Allowance ” — “ Charity.” 

It was the bag bearing this last and greatest 
name which the parson’s daughter now seized and 
emptied into her lap. A ten-shilling piece, some 
small silver, and two-pence halfpenny jingled to- 
gether, and roused a silver-haired, tawny-pawed 
terrier, who left the hearthrug and came to smell 
what was the matter. His mistress’ right hand — 
absently caressing — quieted his feelings ; and with 
the left she held the ten-shilling piece between finger 
and thumb, and gazed thoughtfully at the other 
bags as they squatted in a helpless row, with twine- 
tied mouths hanging on all sides. It was only after 
anxious consultation with an account-book that the 
half-sovereign was exchanged for silver ; thanks to 
the clothing-club bag, which looked leaner for the 
accommodation. In the three-halfpenny bag (which 
bulged with pence) some silver was further solved 


210 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 


into copper, and the charity bag was handsomely 
distended before the whole lot was consigned once 
more to the table-drawer. 

Any one accustomed to book-keeping must smile 
at this bag-keeping of accounts ; but the parson’s 
daughter could never “ bring her mind ” to keeping 
the funds apart on paper, and mixing the actual 
cash Indeed, she could never have brought her 
conscience to it. Unless she had taken the tenth for 
“ charity ” from her dress and pocket-money in coin, 
and put it then and there into the charity bag, this 
self-imposed rule of the duty of almsgiving would 
not have been performed to her soul’s peace. 

The problem which had been exercising her mind 
that Saturday night was how to spend what was 
left of her benevolent fund in a treat for the chil- 
dren of the neighboring workhouse. The fund was 
low, and this had decided the matter. The follow- 
ing Wednesday would be her twenty-first birthday. 
If the children came to tea with her, the foundation 
of the entertainment would, in the natural course of 
things, be laid in the vicarage kitchen. The charity 
bag would provide the extras of the feast — nuts, 
toys, and the like. 

When the parson’s daughter locked the drawer 
of the bandy legged table, she did so with the vigor 
of one who has made up her mind, and set about 


DADDY DARWIN’S DOVECOT. 


211 


the rest of her Saturday night’s duties without 
further delay. 

She put out her Sunday clothes, and her Bible 
and Prayer-book, and class-book and pencil, on the 
oak chest at the foot of the bed. She brushed and 
combed the silver-haired terrier, who looked abjectly 
depressed while this was doing, and preposterously 
proud when it was done. She washed her own 
hair, and studied her Sunday school lesson for the 
morrow while it was drying. She spread a colored 
quilt at the foot of her white one, for the terrier to 
sleep on — a slur which he always deeply resented. 

Then she went to bed, and slept as one ought to 
sleep on Saturday night, who is bound to be at the 
Sunday school by 9:15 on the following morning, 
with a clear mind on the rudiments of the faith, 
the history of the Prophet Elisha, and the desti- 
nations of each of the parish magazines. 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT 


m 


sceot: n. 

Fatherless — motherless — homeless ! 

A little workhouse-boy, with a swarthy face and 
tidily-cropped black hair, as short and thick as the 
fur of a mole, was grubbing, not quite so cleverly 
as a mole, in the workhouse garden. 

He had been set to weed, but the weeding was 
very irregularly performed, for his eyes and heart 
were in the clouds, as he could see them over the 
big boundary wall. Fol 7 there — now dark against 
the white, now white against the gray — some air 
tumbler pigeons were turning somersaults on 
their homeward way, at such short and regular in- 
tervals that they seemed to be tying knots in their 
lines of flight. 

It was too much ! The small gardener shame- 
lessly abandoned his duties, and, curving his dirty 
paws on each side of his mouth, threw his whole 
soul into shouting words of encouragement to the 
distant birds. 

“ That’s a good un ! On with thee ! Over ye go ! 
Oo — ooray ! ” 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 


213 


It was this last prolonged cheer which drowned 
the sound of footsteps on the path behind him, so 
that if he had been a tumbler pigeon himself he 
could not have jumped more nimbly when a man’s 
hand fell upon his shoulder. Up went his arms to 
shield his ears from a well-merited cuffing ; but fate 
was kinder to him than he deserved. It was only 
an old man (prematurely aged with drink and con- 
sequent poverty), whose faded eyes seemed to 
rekindle as he also gazed after the pigeons, and 
spoke as one who knows. 

“ Yon’s Daddy Darwin’s tumblers.” 

This old pauper had only lately come into “ the 
house ” (the house that never was a home !), and the 
boy clung eagerly to his flannel sleeve, and plied 
him thick and fast with questions about the world 
without the workhouse-walls and about the happy 
owner of those yet happier creatures who were free 
not only on the earth but in the skies. 

The poor old pauper was quite as willing to talk 
as the boy was to listen. It restored some of that 
self-respect which we lose under the consequences 
of our follies to be able to say that Daddy Darwin 
and he had been mates together, and had had 
pigeon-fancying in common “ many a long year 
afore ” he came into the house. 

And so these two made friendship over such 


214 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 


matters as will bring man and boy together to the 
end of time. And the old pauper waxed eloquent 
on the feats of homing birds and tumblers, and on 
the points of almonds and bards, fantails and 
pouters; sprinkling his narrative also with high- 
sounding and heterogenous titles, such as dragons 
and archangels, blue owls and black priests, Jaco- 
bines, English horsemen and trumpeters. And 
through much boasting of the high stakes he had 
had on this and that pigeon-match then, and not a 
few bitter complaints of the harsh hospitality of 
the house he “ had come to ” now, it never seemed 
to occur to him to connect the two, or to warn the 
lad who hung upon his lips that one cannot eat his 
cake with the rash appetites of youth, and yet hope 
to have it for the support and nourishment of his 
old age. 

The longest story the old man told was of a “ bit 
of a trip ’’ he had made to Liverpool, to see some 
Antwerp carriers flown from thence to Ghent, and 
he fixed the date of this by remembering that his 
twin sons were born in his absence, and that 
though their birthday was the very day of the race, 
his “ missus turned stoopid,” as women (he 
warned the boy) are apt to do, and refused to have 
them christened by uncommon names connected with 
the fancy. All the same, he bet the lads would 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 


215 


have been nicknamed the Antwerp Carriers, and 
known as such to the day of their death, if this had 
not come so soon and so suddenly, of croup ; when 
(as it oddly chanced) he was off on another “ bit of 
a holiday ” to fly some pigeons of his own in Lim 
colnshire. 

This tale had not come to an end when a voice of 
authority called for “Jack March,” who rubbed his 
mole-like head and went ruefully off, muttering that 
he should “ catch it now.” 

“ Sure enough ! sure enough ! ” chuckled the 
unamiable old pauper. 

But again fate was kinder to the lad than his 
friend. His negligent weeding passed unnoticed, 
because he was wanted in a hurry to join the other 
children in the schoolroom. The parson’s daughter 
had come, the children were about to sing to her, 
and Jack’s voice could not be dispensed with. 

He “ cleaned himself ” with alacrity, and taking 
his place in the circle of boys standing with theii 
hands behind their backs, he lifted up a voice worthy 
of a cathedral choir, while varying the monotony 
of sacred song by secretly snatching at the tail of 
the terrier as it went snuffing round the legs of the 
group. And in this feat he proved as much 
superior to the rest of the boys (who also tried it) 
as he excelled them in the art of singing. 


216 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 


Later on he learned that the young lady had come 
to invite them all to have tea with her on her 
birthday. Later still he found the old pauper once 
more, and questioned him closely about the village 
and the vicarage, and as to which of the parishion- 
ers kept pigeons, and where. 

And when he went to his straw bed that night, 
and his black head throbbed with visions and high 
hopes, these were not entirely of the honor of 
drinking tea with a pretty young lady, and how 
one should behave himself in such abashing circum- 
stances. He did not even dream principally of the 
possibility of getting hold of that silver-haired, 
tawny-pawed dog by the tail under freer conditions 
than of those of this afternoon, though that was a 
refreshing thought. 

What kept him long awake was thinking of 
this. From the top of an old walnut-tree at the top 
of a field at the back of the vicarage, you could see 
a hill, and on the top of the hill some farm build- 
ings. 

And it was here (so the old pauper had told him) 
that those pretty pigeons lived who, though free to 
play about among the clouds, yet condescended to 
make an earthly home — in Daddy Darwin’s Dove- 
cot. 


DADDY DAE WIN’S DOVECOT. 


217 


SCENE III. 

Two and two, girls and boys the young lady’s 
guests marched down to the vicarage. The school- 
mistress was anxious that each should carry his and 
her tin mug, so as to give as little trouble as possi- 
ble ; but this was resolutely declined, much to the 
children’s satisfaction, who had their walk with 
free hands, and their tea out of teacups and saucers 
like anybody else. 

It was a fine day, and all went well. The chil- 
dren enjoyed themselves, and behaved admirably 
into the bargain. There was only one suspicion of 
misconduct, and the matter was so far from clear 
that the parson’s daughter hushed it up, and, so to 
speak, dismissed the case. 

The children were playing at some game in 
which Jack March was supposed to excel, but when 
they came to look for him he could nowhere be 
found. At last he was discovered, high up among 
the branches of an old walnut tree at the top of the 
field, and though his hands were unstained and his 


218 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 


pockets empty, the gardener, who had been the 
first to spy him, now loudly denounced him as an 
ungrateful young thief. Jack, with swollen eyes 
and cheeks besmirched with angry tears, was vehe- 
mently declaring that he had only climbed the tree 
to “ have a look at Master Darwin’s pigeons,” and 
had not picked so much as a leaf, let alone a wal- 
nut ; and the gardener, “ shaking the truth out of 
him” by the collar of his fustian jacket, was 
preaching loudly on the sin of adding falsehood to 
theft, when the parson’s daughter came up, and, in 
the end, acquitted poor Jack, and gave him leave to 
amuse himself as he pleased. 

It did not please Jack to play with his comrades 
just then. He felt sulky and aggrieved. He would 
have liked to play with the terrier who had stood 
by him in his troubles, and barked at the gardener ; 
but that little friend now trotted after his mistress, 
who had gone to choir-practice. 

Jack wandered about among the shubberies. By 
and by he heard sounds of music, and led by these 
he came to a gate in a wall, dividing the vicarage 
garden from the churchyard. Jack loved music, 
and the organ and the voices drew him on till he 
reached the church porch ; but there he was 
startled by a voice that was not only not the voice 
of song, but was the utterance of a moan so doleful 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 


219 


that it seemed the outpouring of all his own lonely 
and outcast and injured feelings in one comprehen- 
sive howl. 

It was the voice of the silver-haired terrier. He 
was sitting in the porch, his nose up, his ears down, 
his eyes shut, his mouth open, bewailing in bitter- 
ness of spirit the second and greater crook of his 
lot. 

To what purpose were all the caresses and care 
and indulgence of his mistress, the daily walks, the 
weekly washings and bombings, the constant com- 
panionship, when she betrayed her abiding sense of 
his inferiority, first, by not letting him sleep on the 
white quilt, and secondly, by never allowing him to 
go to church ? 

Jack shared the terrier’s mood. What were tea 
and plum-cake to him, when his pauper-breeding 
was so stamped upon him that the gardener was 
free to say — “ A nice tale too! What’s thou to 
do wi’ doves, and thou a work’us lad ? ” — and to 
take for granted that he would thieve and lie if he 
got the chance ? 

His disabilities were not the dog’s, however. 
The parish church was his as well as another’s, and 
he crept inside and leaned against one of the stone 
pillars, as if it were a big, calm friend. 

Far away, under the transept, a group of boys 


220 


DADD Y DAli WIN >8 DO VECOT 


and men held their music near to their faces in the 
waning light. Among them towered the burly 
choirmaster, baton in hand. The parson’s daughter 
was at the organ. Well accustomed to produce his 
voice to good purpose, the choirmaster’s words 
were clearly to be heard throughout the building, 
and it was on the subject of articulation and 
emphasis, and the like, that he was speaking ; now 
and then throwing in an extra aspirate in the 
energy of that enthusiasm without which teaching 
is not worth the name. 

“ That’ll not do. We must have it altogether 
different. You two lads are singing like bumble- 
bees in a pitcher — horder there, boys! — it’s no 
laughing matter — put down those papers and keep 
your eyes on me — inflate the chest” — (his own 
seemed to fill the field of vision) — “ and try and give 
forth those noble words as if you’d an idea what 
they meant. ” 

No satire was intended or taken here, but the 
two bo3 r s, who were practicing their duet in an 
anthem, laid down the music, and turned their eyes 
on their teacher. 

“ I’ll run through the recitative,” he added, “ and 
take your time from the stick. And mind that 
Oh.” 

The parson’s daughter struck a chord, and then 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 


221 


the burly choir-master spoke with the voice of 
melody : 

“ My heart is disquieted within me. My heart — 
my heart is disquieted within me. And the fear of 
death is fallen — is fallen upon me.” 

The terrier moaned without, and Jack thought 
no boy’s voice could be worth listening to after 
that of the choir-master. But he was wrong. A 
few more notes from the organ, and then, as night- 
stillness in a wood is broken by the nightingale, so 
upon the silence of the church a boy-alto’s voice 
broke forth in obedience to the choir-master’s up- 
lifted hand : 

“ Then , I said — I said ” 

Jack gasped, but even as he strained his eyes to 
see what such a singer could look like, with higher, 
clearer notes the soprano rose above him — “ Then I 
sa — a — id,” and the duet began : 

“ Oh that I had wings— Oh that I had wings like a 
dove ! ” 

Soprano. — “ Then would I flee away.” Alto . — 
“ Then would I flee away.” Together. — “ And be 
at rest — flee away and be at rest.” 

The clear young voices soared and chased each 
other among the arches, as if on the very pinions 
for which they prayed. Then — swept from their 
seats by an upward sweep of the choir-master’s 


DADDY DARWIN' 8 DOVECOT. 


222 

arms — the chorus rose, as birds rise, and carried on 
the strain. 

It was not a very fine composition, but this 
final chorus had the singular charm of fugue. And 
as the voices mourned like doves, “ Oh that I had 
wings ! ” and pursued each other with the plaintive 
passage, “ Then would I flee away — then would I 
flee away,” Jack’s ears knew no weariness of the 
repetition. It was strangely like watching the 
rising and falling of Daddy Darwin’s pigeons, as 
they tossed themselves by turns upon their home- 
ward flight. 

After the fashion of the piece and period, the 
chorus was repeated, and the singers rose to 
supreme effort. The choir-master’s hands flashed 
hither and thither, controlling, inspiring, directing. 
He sang among the tenors. 

Jack's voice nearly choked him with longing to 
sing too. Could words of man go more deeply 
home to a young heart caged within workhouse 
walls ? 

“ Oh that I had wings like a dove ! Then would 
I flee away,” the choir-master’s white hands were 
fluttering downward in the dusk, and the chorus 
sank with them — “flee away and be at rest! ” 


BADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 




SCENE I Y. 

Jack March had a busy little brain, and his na- 
ture was not of the limp type that sits down with a 
grief. That most memorable tea-party had fired 
his soul with two distinct ambitions. First, to be a 
choir-boy; and secondly, to dwell in Daddy Dar- 
win’s Dovecot. He turned the matter over in his 
mind, and patched together the following facts : 

The board of guardians meant to apprentice him, 
Jack to some master, at the earliest opportunity. 
Daddy Darwin (so the old pauper told him) was a 
strange old man, who had come down in the world, 
and now lived quite alone, with not a soul to help 
him in the house or outside it. He was “ not to 
say mazelin yet, but getting helpless, and uncom- 
mon mean.” 

A nephew came one fine day and fetched away 
the old pauper, to his great delight. It was by 
their hands that Jack despatched a letter, which the 
nephew stamped and posted for him, and which 
was duly delivered on the following morning to Mr. 
Darwin of the Dovecot. 


224 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 


The old man had no correspondents, and he 
looked long at the letter before he opened it. It 
did credit to the teaching of the workhouse school- 
mistress : 

44 Honored Sir : 

44 They call me Jack March. I’m a workhouse 
lad, but, sir, I’m a good one, and the board means 
to ’prentice me next time. Sir, if you face the 
board and take me out you shall never regret it. 
Though I says it as shouldn’t I’m a handy lad. I’ll 
clean a floor with any one, and am willing to work 
early and late, and at your time of life you’re not 
what you was, and them birds must take a deal of 
seeing to. I can see them from the garden when I’m 
set to weed, and I never saw naught like them. Oh, 
sir, I do beg and pray you let me mind your pigeons. 
You’ll be none the worse of a lad about the place, 
and I shall be happy all the days of my life. Sir, 
I’m not unthankful, but, please God, I should like 
to have a home, and to be with them house doves. 

44 From your humble servant — hoping to be — 

44 Jack March. 

44 Mr. Darwin, sir. I love them tumblers as if 
they was my own.” 

Daddy Darwin thought hard and thought long 
over that letter. He changed his mind fifty times 
,a day. But Friday was the board day, and when 
Friday came he 44 faced the board.” And the little 
workhouse lad went home to Daddy Darwin’s 
Dovecot. 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 


22 5 


SCENE Y. 

The bargain was oddly made, but it worked well. 
Whatever Jack’s parentage may have been (and 
he was named after the stormy month in which he 
had been born), the blood that ran in his veins 
could not have been beggars’ blood. There was no 
hopeless, shiftless, invincible idleness about him. 
He found work for himself when it was not given 
him to do, and he attached himself passionately and 
proudly to all the belongings of his new home. 

“ Yon lad of yours seems handy enough, Daddy ; 
— for a vagrant, as one may say.” 

Daddy Darwin was smoking over his garden wall, 
and Mrs. Shaw, from the neighboring farm, had 
paused in her walk for a chat. She was a notable 
housewife, and there was just a touch of envy in 
her sense of the improved appearance of the door- 
steps and other visible points of the Dovecot. 
Daddy Darwin took his pipe out of his mouth to 
make way for the force of his reply : 

“ Vagrant ! Nay, missus, yon’s no vagrant. 
He's fettling up all along. Jack’s the sort that if 


226 


DADDY DARWIN’S DOVECOT. 


he finds a key he’ll look for the lock ; if ye give 
him a knife-blade he’ll fashion a heft. Why a 
vagrant’s a chap that, if he’d all your maester owns 
to-morrow, he’d be on the tramp again afore t’ year 
were out, and three years wouldn’t repair t’ mis- 
chief he’d leave behind him. A vagrant’s a chap 
that if ye lend him a thing he loses it ; if ye give 
him a thing he abuses it ” 

“ That’s true enough, and there’s plenty servant- 
girls the same,” put in Mrs. Shaw. 

“Maybe there be, ma’am — maybe there be; 
vagrants’ children, I reckon. But yon little chap I 
got from t’ house comes of folk that’s had stuff o’ 
their own, and cared for it — choose who they were.” 

“Well, Daddy,” said his neighbor, not without 
malice, “I’ll wish you a good evening. You’ve got 
a good bargain out of the parish, it seems.” 

But Daddy Darwin only chuckled, and stirred up 
the ashes in the bowl of his pipe. 

“The same to you, ma’am — the same to you. 
Ay ! he’s a good bargain — a very good bargain is 
Jack March.” 

It might be supposed from the foregoing dialogue 
that Daddy Darwin was a model householder, and 
the little workhouse boy the neatest creature 
breathing. But the gentle reader who may imagine 
this is much mistaken. 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVEGOT. 


22 ? 


Daddy Darwin’s Dovecot was freehold, and when 
he inherited it from his father there was still 
attached to it a good bit of the land that had 
passed from father to son through more generations 
than the church registers were old enough to record. 
But the few remaining acres were so heavily 
mortgaged that they had to be sold. So that a bit 
of house property elsewhere, and the old homestead 
itself, were all that was left. And Daddy Darwin 
had never been the sort of man to retrieve his luck 
at home, or to seek it abroad. 

That he had inherited a somewhat higher and 
more refined nature than his neighbors had rather 
hindered than helped him to prosper. And he had 
been unlucky in love. When what energies he had 
were in their prime, his father’s death left him with 
such poor prospects that the old farmer to whose 
daughter he was betrothed broke off the match and 
married her elsewhere. His Alice was not long 
another man’s wife. She died within a year from 
her wedding-day, and her husband married again 
within a year from her death. Her old lover was 
no better able to mend his broken heart than his 
broken fortunes. He only banished women from 
the Dovecot, and shut himself up from the coarse 
consolation of his neighbors. 

In this loneliness, eating a kindly heart out in bit- 


228 


DADDY DARWIN '8 DOVECOT. 


terness of spirit, with all that he ought to have 
had — 


To plow and sow 
And reap and mow— 

gone from him, and in the hands of strangers ; the 
pigeons, for which the Dovecot had always been 
famous, became the business and the pleasure of his 
life. But of late years his stock had dwindled, and 
he rarely went to pigeon-matches or competed in 
shows and races. A more miserable fancy rivaled 
his interest in pigeon fancying. His new hobby 
was hoarding ; and money that, a few years back, 
he would have freely spent to improve his breed 
of tumblers or back his homing birds he now added 
with stealthy pleasure to the store behind the secret 
panel of a fine old oak bedstead that had belonged 
to the Darwyn who owned Dovecot when the 
sixteenth century was at its latter end. In this bed- 
stead Daddy slept lightly of late, as old men will, and 
he had horrid dreams, which old men need not have. 
The queer faces carved on the panels (one of which 
hid the money hole) used to frighten him when he 
was a child. They did not frighten him now by 
their grotesque ugliness, but when he looked at 
them, and knew which was which , he dreaded the 
dying out of twilight into dark, and dreamed of 


DADDY DAli WIN'S DOVECOT. 


229 


aged men living alone, who had been murdered for 
their savings. These growing fears had had no 
small share in deciding him to try Jack March ; and 
to see the lad growing stronger, nimbler, and more 
devoted to his master’s interest day by day, was a 
nightly comfort to the poor old hoarder in the bed- 
head. 

As to his keen sense of Jack’s industry and care- 
fulness, it was part of the incompleteness of Daddy 
Darwin’s nature, and the ill-luck of his career, that 
he had a sensitive perception of order and beauty, 
and a shrewd observation of ways of living and 
qualities of character, and yet had allowed his early 
troubles to blight him so completely that he never 
put forth an effort to rise above the ruin, of which 
he was at least as conscious as his neighbors. 

That Jack was not the neatest creature breathing, 
one look at him, as he stood with pigeons on his 
head and arms and shoulders, would have been 
enough to prove. As the first and readiest repudia- 
tion of his workhouse antecedents he had let his 
hair grow till it hung in the wildest elf-locks, and 
though the terms of his service with Daddy Darwin 
would not, in any case, have provided him with 
handsome clothes, such as he had were certainly not 
the better for any attention he bestowed upon them. 
As regarded the Dovecot, however, Daddy Darwin 


230 


DADDY DARWIN' 8 DOVECOT. 


had not done more than justice to his bargain. A 
strong and grateful attachment to his master, and a 
passionate love for the pigeons he tended, kept Jack 
constantly busy in the service of both; the old 
pigeon-fancier taught him the benefits of scrupulous 
cleanliness in the pigeon-cote, and Jack “ stoned ” 
the kitchen-floor and the doorsteps on his own re- 
sponsibility. 

The time did come when he tidied up himself. 


DADDY DAD WIN '8 DOVECOT. 


131 


SCENE VI. 

Daddy Darwin had made the first breach in his 
solitary life of his own free will, but it was fated to 
widen. The parson’s daughter soon heard that he 
had got a lad from the workhouse, the very boy 
who sang so well and had climbed the walnut tree to 
look at Daddy Darwin’s pigeons. The most obvi- 
ous parish questions at once presented themselves to 
the young lady’s mind. “ Had the boy been chris- 
tened? Did he go to church and Sunday school? 
Did he say his prayers and know his catechism ? 
Had he a Sunday suit? Would he do for the 
choir?” 

Then, supposing (a not uncommon case) that the 
boy had been christened, said he said his prayers, 
knew his cathechism, and was ready for school, 
church, and choir, but had not got a Sunday suit — a 
fresh series of riddles propounded themselves to 
her busy brain. “ Would her father yield up his 
every-day coat and take his Sunday one into week- 
day wear? Could the charity bag do better than 


232 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 


pay the tailor’s widow for adapting this old 
coat to the new chorister’s back, taking it in at the 
seams, turning it wrong-side out, and getting new 
sleeves out of the old tails ? Could she herself 
spare the boots which this village cobbler had just 
resoled for her — somewhat clumsily — and would 
the “ allowance ” bag bear this strain ? Might she 
hope to coax an old pair of trousers out of her 
cousin, who was spending his long vacation at the 
vicarage, and who never reckoned very closely with 
his allowance, and kept no charity bag at all? 
Lastly would “ that old curmudgeon at the Dove- 
cot ” let his little farm-boy go to church and school 
and choir? 

“ I must go and persuade him,” said the young 
lady. 

What she said, and what (at the time) Daddy 
Darwin said, Jack never knew. He was at high 
sport with the terrier round the big sweetbrier 
bush, when he saw his old master splitting the 
seams of his weather-beaten coat in the haste with 
which he plucked crimson clove carnations as if 
they had been dandelions, and presented them, not 
ungracefully, to the parson’s daughter. 

Jack knew why she had come, and strained his 
ears to catch his own name. But Daddy Darwin 
was promising pipings of the cloves. 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 


233 


“ They are such dear old-fashioned things,” said 
she, burying her nose in the bunch. 

“ We’re old-fashoined altogether, here, miss,” 
said Daddy Darwin, looking wistfully at the 
tumble-down house behind them. 

“You’re very pretty here,” said she, looking also, 
and thinking what a sketch it would make, if she 
could keep on friendly terms with this old recluse, 
and get leave to sit in the garden. Then her con- 
science smiting her for selfishness, she turned her 
big eyes on him and put out her small hand. 

“ I am very mnch obliged to you, Mr. Darwin, 
very much obliged to you indeed. And I hope that 
Jack will do credit to your kindness. And thank 
you so much for the cloves,” she added, hastily 
changing a subject which had cost some argument, 
and which she did not wish to have reopened. 

Daddy Darwin had thoughts of reopening it. He 
was slowly getting his ideas together to say that the 
lad should see how he got along with the school be- 
fore trying the choir, when he found the young 
lady’s hand in his, and had to take care not to hurt 
it, while she rained thanks on him for the flowers. 

“ You’re freely welcome, miss,” was what he did 
say after all. 

In the evening, however, he was very moody, but 
Jack was dying of curiosity, and at last could con- 
tain himself no longer. 


234 DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 

“ What did Miss Jenny want, Daddy ? ” he asked. 

The old man looked very grim. 

“ First to mak a fool of me, and i’ t’ second place 
to mak a fool of thee,” was his reply. And he 
added with a pettish emphasis, “ They’re all alike, 
gentle and simple. Lad, lad! If ye’d have any 
peace of your life never let a woman’s foot across 
your threshold. Steek t’ door of your house — if ye 
own one — and t’ door o’ your heart — if ye own one 
— and then ye’ll never rue. Look at this coat ! ” 

And the old man went grumpily to bed, and 
dreamed that Miss Jenny had put her little foot 
over his threshold, and that he had shown her the 
secret panel, and let her take away his savings. 

And Jack went to bed, and dreamed that he 
went to school, and showed himself to Phoebe Shaw 
in his Sunday suit. 

This dainty little damsel had long been making 
havoc in Jack’s heart. The attraction must have been 
one of contrast, for whereas Jack was black and 
grubby, and had only week-day clothes — which 
were ragged at that — Phoebe was fair, and exqui- 
sitely clean, and quite terribly tidy. Her mother 
was the neatest woman in the parish. It was she 
who was wont to say to her trembling handmaid, 
“ I hope 1 can black a grate without blacking my- 
self.” But little Phoebe promised so far to out-do 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 


235 


her mother, that it seemed doubtful if she could 
“ black herself ” if she tried. Only the bloom of 
childhood could have resisted the polishing effects 
of yellow soap, as Phoebe’s brow and cheeks did re- 
sist it. Her shining hair was compressed into a 
plait that would have done credit to a rope-maker. 
Her pinafores were speckless, and as to her white 
Whitsun frock — Jack could think of nothing the 
least like Phoebe in that, except a snowy fan- 
tail strutting about the Dovecot roof ; and, to say the 
truth, the likeness was most remarkable. 

It has been shown that Jack March had a 
mind to be master of his fate, and he did succeed in 
making friends with little Phoebe Shaw. This was 
before Miss Jenny’s visit, but the incident shall be 
recorded here. 

Early on Sunday mornings it was Jack’s custom 
to hide his work-day garb in an angle of the ivy- 
covered wall of the Dovecot garden, only letting 
his head appear over the top, from whence he 
watched to see Phoebe pass on her way to Sunday 
school, and to bewilder himself with the sight of 
her starched frock, and her airs with her Bible and 
Prayer-book, and class card, and clean pocket-hand- 
kerchief. 

How, among the rest of her Sunday parapher- 
nalia, Phoebe always carried a posy, made up with 


236 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 


herbs and some strong-smelling flowers. Country- 
women take mint and southernwood to a long hot 
service, as fine ladies take smelling-bottles (for it is a 
pleasant delusion with some writers that the weaker 
sex is a strong sex in the working classes). And 
though Phoebe did not suffer from “ faintly feels’’ 
like her mother, she and her little playmates took 
posies to Sunday school, and refreshed their nerves 
in the steam of question and answer, and hair oil 
and corduroy, with all the airs of their elders. 

One day she lost her posy on her way to school, 
and her loss was Jack's opportunity. He had been 
waiting half-an-hour among the ivy, when he saw 
her just below him, fuzzling round and round like a 
kitten chasing its tail. He sprang to the top of 
the wall. 

“ Have ye lost something ? ” he gasped. 

“ My posy,” said poor Phoebe, lifting her sweet 
eyes, which were full of tears. 

A second spring brought Jack into the dust at 
her feet, where he searched most faithfully, and 
was wandering along the path by which she had 
come, when she called him back. 

“ Never mind,” said she. “ They’ll most likely be 
dusty by now.” 

Jack was not used to think the worse of anything 
for a coating of dust ; but he paused, trying to solve 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 237 


the perpetual problem of his situation, and find out 
what the little maid really wanted. 



“ ’Twas only Old Man and marygolds,” said sh 
“ They’re common enough.” 

A light illumined Jack’s understanding. 

“We’ve Old Man i’ plenty. Wait, and I’ll get 
thee a fresh posy.” And he began to reclimb 
the walk 


238 


DADDY DAR WIN'S DOVECOT. 


But Phoebe drew nearer. She stroked down her 
frock, and spoke mincingly but confidentially. “ My 
mother says Daddy Darwin has red bergamot i’ his 
garden. We’ve none i’ ours. My mother always 
says there’s nothing like red bergamot to take to 
church. She says it’s a deal more refreshing than 
Old Man, and not so common. My mother says 
she’s always meaning to ask Daddy Darwin to let 
us have a root to set ; but she doesn’t oftens see him, 
and when she does she doesn’t think on. But she 
always says there’s nothing like red bergamot, and 
my Aunt Nancy* she says the same.” 

“Red is it?” cried Jack. “You wait there, 
love.” And before Phoebe could say him nay he 
was over the wall and back again with his arms 
full. 

“ Is it any o’ this lot ? ” he inquired, dropping a 
small haycock of flowers at her feet. 

“Don’t ye know one from t’other?” asked 
Phoebe, with round eyes of reproach. And spread- 
ing her clean ’kerchief on the grass she laid her 
Bible and Prayer-book and class card on it, and set 
vigorously and nattily to work, picking one flower 
and another from the fragrant confusion, nipping 
the stalks to even lengths, rejecting withered leaves, 
and instructing Jack as she proceeded. 

“ I suppose ye know a rose ? That’s a double 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 


:39 


velvet.* They dry sweeter than lavender for linen. 
These dark red things is pheasants’ eyes ; but, dear, 
dear, what a lad ! ye’ve dragged it up by the roots ! 
And eh! what will Master Darwin say when he 
misses these pink hollyhocks ? And only in bud, 
too ! There's red bergamot ; f smell it ! ” 

It had barely touched Jack’s willing nose when it 
was hastily withdrawn. Phoebe had caught sight 
of Polly and Susan Smith coming to school, and 
crying that she should be late and must run, the 
little maid picked up her paraphernalia (not forget- 
ing the red bergamot), and fled down the lane. 
And Jack, with equal haste, snatched up the tell-tale 
heap of flowers and threw them into a disused pig- 
sty, where it was unlikely that Daddy Darwin 
would go to look for his poor pink hollyhocks. 

* Double Velvet, an old summer rose, not common now. 
It is described by Parkinson. 

t Red Bergamot, or Twinflower : Monarda Didyma. 


2±0 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT \ 


SCENE VII. 

Apeil was a busy month in the Dovecot. Young 
birds were chipping the egg, parent birds were 
feeding their young or relieving each other on the 
nest, and Jack and his master were constantly oc- 
cupied and excited. 

One night Daddy Darwin went to bed, but, 
though he was tired, he did not sleep long. He 
had sold a couple of handsome but quarrelsome 
pigeons to advantage, and had added their price to 
the hoard in the bedhead. This had renewed his 
old fears, for the store was becoming very valuable ; 
and he wondered if it had really escaped Jack’s 
quick observation, or whether the boy knew about 
it, and, perhaps talked about it. As he 
lay and worried himself he fancied he heard 
sounds without — the sounds of footsteps and 
of voices. Then his heart beat till he could hear 
nothing else ; then he could undoubtedly hear noth- 
ing at all ; then he certainly heard something which 
probably was rats. And so he lay in a cold sweat, 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 


241 


and pulled the rug over his face, and made up his 
mind to give the money to the parson, for the poor, 
if he was spared till daylight. 

He was spared till daylight, and had recovered 
himself, and settled to leave the money where it 
was, when Jack rushed in from the pigeon-house 
with a face of dire dismay. He made one or two 
futile efforts to speak, and then unconsciously used 
the words Shakespeare has put into the mouth of 
Macduff, “ All my pretty ’uns 1 ” and so burst into 
tears. 

And when the old man made his way to the 
pigeon-house, followed by poor Jack, he found that 
the eggs, were cold and the callow young shiver- 
ing in deserted nests, and that every bird was gone. 
And then he remembered the robbers, and was 
maddened by the thought that while he lay expect- 
ing thieves to break in and steal his money he had 
let them get safely off with his whole stock of 
pigeons. 

Daddy Darwin had never taken up arms against 
his troubles, and this one crushed him. The fame 
and beauty of his house-doves were all that was 
left of prosperity about the place, and now there 
was nothing left — nothing ! Below this dreary 
thought lay a far more bitter one, which he dared 
not confide to Jack. He had heard the robbers ; he 


242 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 


might have frightened them away ; he might at 
least have given the lad a chance to save his pets, 
and not a care had crossed his mind except for the 
safety of his own old bones, and of those miserable 
savings in the bedhead, which he was enduring so 
much to scrape together (oh satire !) for a distant 
connection whom he had never seen. He crept back 
to the kitchen, and dropped in a heap upon the 
settle, and muttered to himself. Then his thoughts 
wandered. Supposing the pigeons were gone for 
good, would he ever make up his mind to take that 
money out of the money -hole, and buy a fresh 
stock ? He knew he never would, and shrank into 
a meaner heap upon the settle as he said so to him- 
self. He did not like to look his faithful lad in the 
face. 

Jack looked him in the face, and, finding no help 
there, acted pretty promptly behind his back. He 
roused the parish constable, and fetched that 
functionary to the Dovecot before he had had bite 
or sup to break his fast. He spread a meal for him 
and Daddy, and borrowed the Shaws’ light cart 
while they were eating it. The Shaws were good 
farmer-folk, they sympathized most fully : and 
Jack was glad of a few words of pity from Phoebe. 
She said she had watched the pretty pets “ many a 
score of times ” which comforted more than one of 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 


243 


Jack’s heart-strings. Phoebe’s mother paid respect 
to his sense and promptitude. He had acted ex- 
actly as she would have done. 

“ Daddy was right enough about yon lad,” she 
admitted. “He’s not one to let the grass grow 
under his feet.” 

And she gave him a good breakfast while the 
horse was being “ put to.” It pleased her that 
Jack jumped up and left half a- delicious cold tea 
cake behind him when the cart-wheels grated out- 
side. Mrs. Shaw sent Phoebe to put the cake in his 
pocket, and “ the measter ” helped Jack in and 
took the reins. He said he would “ see Daddy 
Darwin through it,” and added the weight of his 
opinion to that of the constable, that the pigeons 
had been taken to “ a beastly low place ” (as he 
put it) that had lately been set up for pigeon- 
shooting in the outskirts of the neighboring 
town. 

They paused no longer at the Dovecot than was 
needed to hustle Daddy Darwin on to the seat 
beside Master Shaw, and for Jack to fill his pockets 
with peas, and take his place beside the constable. 
He had certain ideas of his own on the matter, 
which were not confused by the jog-trot of the 
light cart, which did give a final jumble to poor 
Daddy Darwin’s faculties. 


244 


DADDY DARWIN '8 DOVECOT. 


No wonder they were jumbled ! The terrors of 
the night passed the shock of the morning, the com- 
pleteness of the loss, the piteous sight in the 
pigeon house, remorseful shame, and then — after 
all these years, during which he had not gone half 
a mile from his own hearthstone — to be set up for 
all the world to see, on the front seat of a market- 
cart, back to back with the parish constable, and 
jogged off as if miles were nothing, and crowded 
streets were nothing, and the Beaulieu Gardens 
were nothing ; Master Shaw talking away as easily 
as if they were sitting in two armchairs, and 
making no more of “ stepping into ” a lawyer’s 
office, and “ going on ” to the town hall, than if 
he were talking of stepping up to his own bed- 
chamber or going out into the garden ! 

That day passed like a dream, and Daddy Darwin 
remembered what happened in it as one remembers 
visions of the night. 

He had a vision (a very un pleasing vision) of the 
proprietor of the Beaulieu Gardens, a big greasy 
man, with sinister eyes very close together, 
and a hook nose, and a heavy watchchain, and a 
bullying voice. He browbeat the constable very 
soon, and even bullied Master Shaw into silence. 
No help was to be had from him in his loud indig- 
nation at being supposed to traffic with thieves. 


BADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 


245 


When he turned the tables by talking of slander, 
loss of time, and compensation, Daddy Darwin 
smelled money, and tremblingly whispered to Master 
Shaw to apologize and get out of it. “They’re 
gone for good,” he almost sobbed ; “ Gone for 
good, like all t’ rest ! And I’ll not be long after ’em.” 

But even as he spoke he heard a sound which 
made him lift up his head. It was Jack’s call at 
feeding-time to the pigeons at the Dovecot. And 
quick following on this most musical and most 
familiar sound there came another. The old man 
put both his lean hands behind his ears to be sure 
that he heard it aright — the sound of wings — the 
wings of a dove ! 

The other men heard it and ran in. While they 
were wrangling, Jack had slipped past them, and 
had made his way into a wired enclosure in front 
of the pigeon-house. And there they found him, 
with all the captive pigeons coming to his call; 
flying, fluttering, strutting, nestling from head to 
foot of him, he scattering peas like hail. 

He was the first to speak, and not a choke in his 
voice. His iron temperament was at white heat, 
and, as he afterward said, he “ cared no more for 
yon dirty chap wi’ the big nose, nor if he were a 
ratten * in a hay loft ! ” 


'Anglic e Rat. 


246 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 


“ These is ours,” he said, shortly. “ I’ll count ’em 
over, and see if they’re right. There was only one 
young ’un that could fly. A white ’un.” (“ It’s 

here, ” interpolated Master Shaw.) “ I’ll pack em i’ 
yon,” and Jack turned his thumb to a heap of 
hampers in a corner. “T’ carrier can leave t’ 
basket’s at toll-bar next Saturday, and ye may 
send your lad for ’em, if ye keep one.” 

The proprietor of the Beaulieu Gardens was not 
a man easily abashed, but most of the pigeons were 
packed before he had fairly resumed his previous 
powers of speech. Then, as Master Shaw said, he 
talked “on the other side of his mouth.” Most 
willing was he to help to bring to justice the 
scoundrels who had deceived him and robbed Mr. 
Darwin, but he feared they would be difficult to 
trace. His own feeling was that of wishing for 
pleasantness among neighbors. The pigeons had 
been found at the gardens. That was enough. He 
would be glad to settle the business out of 
court. 

Daddy Darwin heard the chink of the dirty man’s 
money, and would have compounded the matter 
then and there. But not so the parish constable, 
who saw himself famous ; and not so Jack, who 
turned eyes of smoldering fire on Master Shaw. 

“ Maester Shaw ! you’ll not let them chaps get 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 


247 


off ? Daddy’s mazelin wi’ trouble, sir, but I reckon 
you’ll see to it.” 

“ If it cost t’ worth of the pigeons ten times over, 
I’ll see to it, my lad,” was Master Shaw’s reply. 
And the parish constable rose even to a vein of 
satire as he avenged himself of the man who had 
slighted his office. “ Settle it out of court? Ay ! I 
dare say. And send t’ same chaps to fetch ’em away 
again t’ night after. Nay — bear a hand with this 
hamper, Maester Shaw, if you please — if it’s all the 
same to you, Mr. Proprietor, I think we shall have 
to trouble you to step up to t’ town hall by 
and by, and see if we can’t get shut of them mis- 
taking friends o’ yours for three month any way.” 

If that day was a trying one to Daddy Darwin, 
the night that followed it was far worse. The 
thieves were known to the police, and the case was 
down to come on at the town hall the following 
morning ; but meanwhile the constable thought fit 
to keep the pigeons under his own charge in the 
village lock-up. Jack refused to be parted from his 
birds, and remained with them, leaving Daddy 
Darwin alone in the Dovecot. He dared not go to 
bed, and it was not a pleasant night that he spent, 
dozing with weariness, and starting up with fright, 
in an armchair facing the money-hole. 

Some things that he had been nervous about he 


S18 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 


got quite used to, however. He bore himself with 
sufficient dignity in the publicity of the town hall, 
where a great sensation was created by the pigeons 
being let loose without, and coming to Jack’s call. 
Some of them fed from the boy’s lips, and he was 
the hero of the hour, to Daddy Darwin’s delight. 

Then the lawyer and the lawyer’s office proved 
genial and comfortable to him. He liked civil ways 
and smooth speech, and understood them far better 
than Master Shaw’s brevity and uncouthness. The 
lawyer chatted kindly and intelligently ; he gave 
Daddy Darwin wine and biscuit, and talked of the 
long standing of the Darwin family and its vicissi- 
tudes ; he even took down some fat yellow books, 
and showed the old man how many curious laws 
had been made from time to time for the special 
protection of pigeons in dovecots. Yery ancient 
statutes making the killing of a house-dove felony. 
Then 1 James I. c. 29, awarded three months’ 
imprisonment “ without bail or mainprise ” to any 
person who should “ shoot at, kill, or destroy with 
any gun, crossbow, stonebow, or longbow, any 
house-dove or pigeon,” but allowed an alternative 
fine of twenty shillings to be paid to the church 
wardens Of the parish for the benefit of the poor. 
Daddy Darwin hoped there was no such alternative 
in this case, and it proved that by 2 Geo. III. c. 29, 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 


249 


the twenty -shilling fine was transferred to the owner 
of birds ; at which point another client called, and 
the polite lawyer left Daddy to study the laws by 
himself. 

It was when Jack was helping Master Shaw to 
put the horse into the cart, after the trial was over 
that the farmer said to him, “ I don’t want to put 
you about, my lad, but I’m afraid you won’t keep 
your master long. T’ old gentleman’s breaking up, 
mark my words ! Constable and me was going into 
the George for a glass, and Master Darwin left us 
and went back to the office. I says, c What are ye 
going back to t’ lawyer for ? ’ and he says, ‘ I don’t 
mind telling you, Master Shaw, but it’s to make my 
will.’ And off he goes. Now, there’s only two more 
things between that and death, Jack March! And 
one’s the parson, and t’ other’s the doctor.” 


250 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 


SCENE VIII. 

Little Phoebe Shaw coming out of the day school, 
and picking her way home to tea, was startled by 
folk running past her, and by a sound of cheering 
from the far end of the village, which gradually 
increased in volume, and was caught up by the by- 
standers as they ran. When Phoebe heard that it 
was “ Constable, and Master Shaw, and Daddy 
Darwin and his lad, coming home, and the pigeons 
along wi’ ’em,” she felt inclined to run too ; but a fit 
of shyness came over her, and she demurely decided 
to wait by the school gate till they came her way. 
They did not come. They stopped. What were 
they doing? Another bystander explained, 
“ They’re shaking hands wi’ Daddy, and I reckon 
they’re making him put up t’ birds here, to see ’em 
go home to t’ Dovecot.” 

Phoebe ran as if for her life. She loved beast 
and bird as well as Jack himself, and the fame of 
Daddy Darwin’s doves was great. To see them put 
up by him to fly home after such an adventure was 
a sight not lightly to be forgone. The crowd had 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 


251 


moved to a hillock in a neighboring field before she 
touched its outskirts. By that time it pretty well 
numbered the population of the village, from the 
oldest inhabitant to the youngest that could run. 
Phoebe had her mother’s courage and resource. 
Chirping out feebly but clearly, “I’m Maester 
Shaw’s little lass, will ye let me through?” she was 
passed from hand to hand, till her little fingers 
found themselves in Jack’s tight clasp, and he 
fairly lifted her to her father’s side. 

She was just in time. Some of the birds had 
hung about Jack, nervous, or expecting peas ; but 
the hesitation was past. Free in the sweet sunshine — 
beating down the evening air with silver wings and 
their feathers like gold — ignorant of cold eggs and 
callow young dead in deserted nests — sped on their 
way by such a roar as rarely shook the village in 
its body corporate — they flew straight home : to 
Daddy Darwin’s Dovecot. 


252 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 


SCENE IX. 

Daddy Darwin lived a good many years after 
making his will, and the Dovecot prospered in his 
hands. 

It would be more just to say that it prospered in 
the hands of Jack March. 

By hook and by crook he increased the live stock 
about the place. Folk were kind to one who had 
set so excellent an example to other farm lads, 
though he lacked the primal virtue of belonging to 
the neighborhood. He bartered pigeons for fowls, 
and some one gave him a sitting of eggs to “see what 
he would make of ’em.” Master Shaw gave him a 
little pig, with kind words and good counsel ; and 
Jack cleaned out the disused pigsty es, which were 
never disused again. He scrubbed his pigs with soap 
and water as if they had been Christians, and the ad- 
mirable animals, regardless of the pork they were 
coming to, did him infinite credit, and brought him 
profit into the bargain, which he spent on duck’s 
eggs, and other additions to his farmyard family. 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 


253 


The Shaws were very kind to him ; and if Mrs. 
Shaw’s secrets must be told, it was because Phoebe 
was so unchangeably and increasingly kind to him, 
that she sent the pretty maid (who had a knack of 
knowing her own mind about things) to service. 

Jack March was a handsome, stalwart youth now, 
of irreproachable conduct, and with qualities which 
Mrs. Shaw particularly prized ; but he was but a 
farm-lad, and no match for her daughter. 

J ack only saw his sweetheart once during several 
years. She had not been well, and was at home 
for the benefit of “ native air.” He walked over 
the hill with her as they returned from church, and 
lived on the remembrance of that walk for two or 
three years more. Phoebe had given him her 
prayer-book to carry, and he had found a dead 
flower in it, and had been jealous. She had asked 
if he knew what it was, and he had replied fiercely 
that he did not, and was not sure that he cared to 
know. 

“Ye never did know much about flowers,” said 
Phoebe, demurely, “ It’s red bergamot.” 

“ I love — red bergamot,” he whispered penitently. 
“ And thou owes me a bit. I gave thee some once.” 
And Phoebe had let him put the withered bits into 
his own hymn book, which was more than he de- 
served. 


254 


DADDY DARWIN’S DOVECOT. 


Jack was still in the choir, and taught in the Sun- 
day school where he used to learn. The parson’s 
daughter had had her way ; Daddy Darwin grum- 
bled at first, but in the end he got a bottle-green 
Sunday-coat out of the oakpress that matched the 
bedstead, and put the house-key into his pocket, 
and went to church too. Now, for years past he 
had not failed to take his place, week by week, in 
the pew that was traditionally appropriated to the 
use of the Darwins of Dovecot. In such an hour 
the sordid cares of the secret panel weighed less 
heavily on his soul, and the things that are not 
seen came nearer — the house not made with hands, 
the treasures that rust and moth corrupt not, and 
which thieves do not break through to steal. 

Daddy Darwin died of old age. As his health failed, 
Jack nursed him with the tenderness of a woman ; 
and kind inquiries, and dainties which Jack could 
not have cooked, came in from many quarters 
w T here it pleased the old man to find that he was 
held in respect and remembrance. 

One afternoon, coming in from the farmyard, 
Jack found him sitting by the kitchen-table as he 
had left him, but with a dread look of change upon 
his face. At first he feared there had been “ a 
stroke,” but Daddy Darwin’s mind was clear and 
his voice firmer than usual. 


DADD 7 DAD WIN '8 DO VEGO T. 


255 


“ My lad,” he said, “ fetch me yon tea-pot out of 
the corner cupboard. T’ one wi’ a pole-house * 
painted on it, and some letters. Take care how ye 
shift it. It were t’ merry feast-pot f at my christen- 
ing, and yon’s t’ letters of my father’s and mother’s 
names. Takeoff t’ lid. There’s two bits of paper in 
the inside.” - 

J ack did as he was bid, and laid the papers (one 
small and yellow with age, the other bigger, and 
blue, and neatly written upon) at his master’s right 
hand. 

“ Read yon,” said the old man, pushing the small 
one toward him. Jack took it up wondering. It 
was the letter he had written from the workhouse 
fifteen years before. That was all he could see. 
The past surged up too thickly before his eyes, and 
tossing it impetuously from him, he dropped on a 
chair by the table, and snatching Daddy Darwin’s 
hands he held them to his face with tears. 

“God bless thee!” he sobbed. “You’ve been a 
good maester to me ! ” 

“ Daddy” wheezed the old man. “ Daddy , not 
maester.” And drawing his right hand away, he 
laid it solemnly on the young man’s head. “ God 

* A pole-house is a small dovecot on the top of a pole, 
f “ Merry feast-pot ” is a name given to old pieces of ware, 
made in local potteries for local festivals. 


256 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 


bless thee , and reward thee. What have I done i’ 
my feckless life to deserve a son ? But if ever a lad 
earned a father and a home, thou hast earned ’em, 
Jack March.” 

He moved his hand again and laid it trembling on 
the paper. 

“Every word i’ this letter ye’ve made good. 
Every word, even to t’ bit at the end. ‘I love 
them tumblers as if they were my own,’ says you. 
Lift thee head, lad, and look at me. They are thy 
own ! . . . Yon blue paper’s my last will and testa- 
ment, made many a year back by Mr. Brown, of 
Green street, solicitor, and a very nice gentleman 
too ; and witnessed by his clerks, two decent young 
chaps, and civil enough, but with too much watch- 
chain for their situation. Jack March, my son, I 
have left thee maester of the Dovecot and all that I 
have. And there’s a bit of money in t’ bedhead that 
’ll help thee to make a fair start, and to bury me 
decently atop of my father and mother. Ye may 
let Bill Sexton toll an hour-bell for me, for I’m a old 
standard ; if I never were good for much. Maybe 
I might ha’ done better if things had happed in a 
different fashion ; but the Lord knows all. I’d like 
a hymn at the grave, Jack, if the vicar has no ob- 
jections, and do thou sing if thee can. Don’t fret 
my son, thou’st no cause. ’Twas that sweet voice o’ 


DADDY DARWIN' 8 DOVECOT. 


257 


thine took me back again to public worship, and it’s 
not t’ least of all I owe thee, Jack March. A poor 
reason, lad, for taking up with a neglected duty — a 
poor reason — but the Lord is a God of mercy, or 
there’d be small chance for most on us. If Miss 
Jenny and her husband come t’ vicarage this sum- 
mer, say I left her my duty and an old man’s bless- 
ing ; and if she wants any roots out of t’ garden, 
give ’em her, and give her yon old chest that stands 
in the back chamber. It belonged to an uncle of 
my mother’s — a Derbyshire man. They say her 
husband’s a rich gentleman, and treats her very 
well. I reckon she may have what she’s a mind, 
new and polished, but she’s always for old lumber. 
They’re a whimsical lot, gentle and simple. And 
talking of women , Jack, I’ve a word to say, if I can 
fetch my breath to say it. Lad ! as sure as you’.re 
maesterof Dovecot, you’ll give it a missus. Now 
take heed to me. If ye fetch any woman home 
here but Phoebe Shaw, I’ll walk, and scare ye away 
from t’ old place. I’m willing for Phoebe, and I 
charge ye to tell the lass so hereafter. And tell 
her its not because she’s fair — too many on ’em are 
that ; and not because she’s thrifty and houseproud 
—her mother’s that, and she’s no favorite of mine ; 
but because I’ve watched her whenever t’ ould 
cat ’s let her be at home, and it’s my belief that she 


258 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT, \ 


loves ye, knowing naught of this ” (he laid his hand 
upon the will) “ and that she’ll stick to ye, choose 
what her folk may say. Ay, ay, she’s not one of 
t’ sort that quits a falling house — like rattens .” 

Language fails to convey the bitterness which the 
old man put into these last two words. It exhausted 
him, and his mind wandered. When he had to some 
extent recovered himself he spoke again, but very 
feebly. 

“ Tak’ my duty to the vicar, lad, Daddy Darwin’s 
duty, and say he’s at t’ last feather of the shuttle, 
and would be thankful for the Sacrament.” 


The parson had come and gone. Daddy Darwin 
did not care to lie down, he breathed with difficulty ; 
so Jack made him easy in a big armchair, and 
raked up the fire with cinders, and took a chair on 
the other side of the hearth to watch with him. 
The old man slept comfortably, and at last, much 
wearied, the young man dozed also. 

He awoke because. Daddy Darwin moved, but for 
a moment he thought he must be dreaming. So 
erect the old man stood, and with such delight in his 
wide-open eyes. They were looking over Jack’s 
head. 

All that the lad had never seen upon his face 
seemed to have come back to it — youth, hope, reso- 


DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT. 


259 


lution, tenderness. His lips were trembling with 
the smile of acutest joy. 

Suddenly he stretched out his arms, and crying, 
“ Alice ! ” started forward and fell — dead — on the 
breast of his adopted son. 


Craw ! Craw ! Craw ! The crows flapped slowly 
home, and the Gaffers moved off too. The sun was 
down, and “ damps ” are bad for “ rheumatics.” 

“ It’s a strange tale,” said Gaffer II., “ but if all’s 
true ye tell me, there’s not too many like him.” 

“ That’s right enough,” Gaffer I. admitted. “He’s 
been t’ same all through, and ye should ha’ seen the 
burying be gave t’ ould chap. He was rare and 
good to him by all accounts, and never gain said 
him aught, except i’ not lifting his voice as he 
should ha’ done at t’ grave. Jack sings a bass solo 
as well as any man i’ t’ place ; but he stood yonder, 
for all t’ world like one of them crows, black o’ 
visage, and black wi’ funeral clothes, and choked 
with crying like a child i’ stead of a man.” 

“Well, well, t’ ould chap were all he had, I 
reckon,” said Gaffer II. 

“ That's right enough ; and for going backwards, 
as ye may say, and setting a wild graff on an old 
standard, yon will’s done well for Daddy Darwin’s 
Dovecot.” 




LOB, LIE-BY-THE-FIRE. 



LOB LIE-BY-THE-FIRE. 


INTRODUCTORY. 

Lob Lie-by-the-fire — the Lubber-fiend, as Milton 
calls him — is a rough kind of Brownie or House Elf, 
Supposed to haunt some north-country homesteads, 
where he does the work of the farm laborers, for no 
grander wages than : 

“ to earn his cream-bowl duly set.” 

Hot that he is insensible of the pleasures of rest, 
for : 

“ When, in one night, ere glimpse of morn, 

His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn 
That ten day-laborers could not end, 

Then lies him down the Lubber-fiend, 

And, stretched out all the chimney’s length, 

Basks at the fire his hairy strength. ” 

It was said that a Lob Lie-by-the-fire 'once 
haunted the little old Hall at Lingborough. It was 
an old stone house on the borders, and seen^ to have 
got its tints from the gray skies that hung above it. 


264 


LOB LIE-B Y- THE- FIRE. 


It was cold-looking without, but cozy within, “ like 
a north-country heart,” said Miss Kitty, who was 
a woman of sentiment, and kept a commonplace 
book. 

It was long before Miss Kitty’s time that Lob 
Lie-by-the-fire first came to Lingborough. Wh} r 
and whence he came is not recorded, nor when and 
wherefore he withdrew his valuable help, which, as 
wages rose, and prices rose also, would have been 
more welcome than ever. 

This tale professes not to record more of him than 
comes within the memory of man. 

Whether (as Fletcher says) he were the son of a 
witch, if curds and cream won his heart, and new 
clothes put an end to his labors, it does not pretend to 
tell. His history is less known than that of any 
other sprite. It may be embodied in some oral tra- 
dition that shall one day be found ; but as yet the 
mists of forgetfulness hide it from the story-teller of 
to-day as deeply as the sea fogs are wont to lie be- 
tween Lingborough and the adjacent coast. 

THE LITTLE OLD LADIES. — ALMS DONE 
IN SECRET. 

The little old ladies of Lingborough were heir- 
esses. 

Not, mind you, in the sense of being the children 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIRE. 


265 


of some mushroom millionaire, with more money 
than manners, and (as Miss Betty had seen with her 
own eyes, on the daughter of a manufacturer who 
shall be nameless) dresses so fine in quality and be- 
furbelowed in construction as to cost a good quarter’s 
income (of the little old ladies), but trailed in the 
dirt from “ beggarly extravagance,” or kicked out 
behind at every step by feet which fortune (and a 
very large fortune too) had never taught to walk 
properly. 

“ And how should she know how to walk ? ” said 
Miss Betty. “ Her mother can’t have taught 
her, poor body ! that ran through the streets 
of Leith, with a creel on her back, as a lassie ; and 
got out of her coach (lined with satin, you mind 
sister Kitty ?) to her dying day, with a bounce, all 
in a heap, her dress caught, and her stockings ex- 
posed (among ourselves, ladies !) like some good 
wife that’s afraid to be late for the market. Ay, 
ay ! Malcolm Midden — good man ! made a fine 
pocket of silver in a dirty trade, but his women ’ll 
jerk, and toss, and bounce, and fuss, and fluster for a 
generation or two yet for all the silks and satins he 
can buy ’em.” 

From this it will be seen that the little old ladies 
inherited some prejudices of their class, and were 
also endowed with a shrewdness of observation 


266 


LOB L1E-BY-THE-FIRR 


common among all classes of north-country women 
But to return to what else they inherited. They 
were heiresses, as the last representatives of a 
family as old in that Border country as the bold 
•blue hills which broke its horizon. They w T ere 
heiresses also in default of heirs male to their father, 
who got the land from his uncle’s dying childless — 
sons being scarce in the family. They were 
heiresses, finally, to the place and the farm, to the 
furniture that was made when folk seasoned their 
wood before they worked it, to a diamond brooch 
which they wore by turns, besides two diamond 
rings, and two black lace shawls, that had belonged 
to their mother and their Auntie Jean, long since 
departed thither where neither moth nor rust 
corrupt the true riches. 

As to the incomings of Lingborough, “it was 
nobody’s business but their own,” as Miss Betty 
said to the lawyer who was their man of business, 
and whom they consulted on little matters of rent 
and repairs at as much length, and with as much 
formal solemnity, as would have gone elsewhere 
to the changing hands of half a million of money. 
Without violating their confidence, however, we 
may say that the estate paid its way, kept them in 
silk stockings, and gave them new tabbinet dresses 
once in three years. It supplied their wants the 


LOB LIE-B T-THE-FIRE. 


267 


better that they had inherited house plenishing 
from their parents, “ which they thanked their stars 
was not made of tag-rag, and would last their time,” 
and that they were quite content with an old home 
and old neighbors, and never desired to change the 
grand air that blew about their native hills for 
worse, in order to be poisoned with bad butter, and 
make the fortunes of extortionate lodging-house 
keepers. 

The rental of Lingborough did more. How much 
more the little old ladies did not know themselves, 
and no one else shall know, till that which was 
done in secret is proclaimed from the house-tops. 

For they had a religious scruple, founded upon a 
literal reading of the scriptural command that a 
man’s left hand should not know what his right 
hand gives in alms, and this scruple had been 
ingeniously set at rest by the parson, who, failing 
in an attempt to explain the force of eastern hyper- 
bole to the little ladies’ satisfaction, had said that 
Miss Betty, being the elder, and the head of the 
house, might be likened to the right hand, and Miss 
Kitty, as the younger, to the left, and that if they 
pursued their good works without ostentation, or 
desiring the applause even of each other, the spirit 
of the injunction would be fulfilled. 

The parson was a good man and a clever. He 


208 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIRE. 


had (as Miss ’Betty justly said) a very spiritual 
pietjr. But he was also gifted with much shrewd- 
ness in dealing with the various members of his 
flock. And his word was law to the sisters. 

Thus it came about that the little ladies’ charities 
were not known even to each other — that Miss 
Betty turned her morning camlet twice instead of 
once, and Miss Kitty denied herself in sugar, to 
carry out benevolent little projects which were 
accomplished in secret, and of which no record 
appears in the Lingborough ledger. 

AT TEA WITH MRS. DUNMAW. 

The little ladies of Lingborough were very 
sociable, and there was, as they said, “as much 
gayety as was good for any one” within their 
reach. There were at least six houses at which 
they drank tea from time to time, all within a walk. 
As hosts or guests, you always met the same people, 
which was a friendly arrangement, and the pro- 
grammes of the entertainments were so uniform, 
that no one could possibly feel awkward. The best 
of manners and home-made wines distinguished 
these tea parties, where the company was strictly 
genteel, if a little faded. Supper was served at 
nine, and the parson and the lawyer played whist 


LOB LIE-B T-THE-FIRE. 


269 


for love with different partners on different even- 
ings with strict impartiality. 

Small jealousies are apt to be weak points in 
small societies, but there was a general acquiescence 
in the belief that the parson had a friendly prefer- 
ence for the little ladies of Lingborough. 

He lived just beyond them, too, which led to his 
invariably escorting them home. Miss Betty and 
Miss Kitty would not for worlds have been so 
indelicate as to take this attention for granted, 
though it was a custom of many years standing. 
The older sister always went through the form of 
asking the younger to u see if the servant had 
come,” and at this signal the parson always bade 
the lady of the house good-night, and respectfully 
proffered his services as an escort to Lingborough. 

It was a lovely evening in June, when the little 
ladies took tea with the widow of General Dunmaw 
at her cottage, not quite two miles from their own 
home. 

It was a memorable evening. The tea party was 
an agreeable one. The little ladies had new 
tabbinets on, and Miss Kitty wore the diamond 
brooch. Miss Betty had played whist with the 
parson, and the younger sister (perhaps because of 
the brooch) had been favored with a good deal of 
conversation with the lawyer. It was an honor, 


270 


LOB LIE-B T-THE-FIRE. 


because the lawyer bore the reputation of an esprit 
fort , and was supposed to have, as a rule, a con- 
tempt for feminine intellects, which good manners 
led him to veil under an almost officious politeness 
in society. But honors are apt to be uneasy bless- 
ings, and this one was at least as harassing as 
gratifying. For a somewhat monotonous vein of 
sarcasm, a painful power of producing puns, and a 
dexterity in suggesting doubts of everything, were 
the main foundation of his intellectual reputation, 
and Miss Kitty found them hard to cope with. 
And it was a warm evening. 

But women have much courage, especially to 
defend a friend or a faith, and the less Miss Kitty 
found herself prepared for the conflict the harder 
she esteemed it her duty to fight. She fought for 
church and state, for parsons and poor people, for 
the sincerity of her friends, the virtues of the 
royal family, the merit of Dr. Drugson’s pre- 
scriptions, and for her favorite theory that there 
is some good in every one and some happiness to be 
found everywhere. 

She rubbed nervously at the diamond brooch with 
her thin little mittened hands. She talked very 
fast ; and if the lawyer were guilty of feeling any 
ungallant indifference to her observations, she did 
not so much as hear his, and her cheeks became so 


LOB LIE-B Y~ THE- FIRE. 


2?1 


flushed that Mrs. Dunmaw crossed the room in her 
China crape shawl and said, “My dear Miss Kitty, 
I’m sure you feel the heat very much. Do take my 
fan, which is larger than yours.” 

But Miss Kitty was saved a reply, for at this 
moment Miss Betty turned on the sofa, and said, 
“Dear Kitty, will you kindly see if the serv- 
ant ” 

And the parson closed the volume of “Friend- 
ship’s Offering ” which lay before him, and advanced 
toward Mrs. Dunmaw and took leave in his own 
dignified way. 

Miss Kitty was so much flustered that she had not 
even presence of mind to look for the servant, who 
had never been ordered to come, but the parson re- 
lieved her by saying in his round, deep voice, “ I 
hope you will not refuse me the honor of seeing you 
home, since our roads happen to lie together.” And 
she was glad to get into the fresh air, and beyond 
the doubtful compliments of the lawyer’s nasal 
suavity — “ You have been very severe upon me to- 
night, Miss Kitty. I’m sure I had no notion I 
should find so powerful an antagonist,” etc. 

MIDSUMMER EYE— A LOST DIAMOND. 

It was Midsummer eve. The long light of the 
north was pale and clear, and the western sky 


272 


LOB LIE-B T-TH E-FIRE. 


shone luminous through the fir-wood that bordered 
the road. Under such dim lights colors deepen, and 
the great bushes of broom, that were each one mass 
of golden blossom, blazed like fairy watch-fires up 
the lane. 

Miss Kitty leaned on the left arm of the parson 
and Miss Betty on his right. She chatted gayly, 
which left her younger sister at leisure to think of 
all the convincing things she had not remembered 
to say to the lawyer, as the evening breeze cooled 
her cheeks. 

" A grand prospect for the crops, sir,” said Miss 
Betty ; “ I never saw the broom so beautiful.” But 
as she leaned forward to look at the yellow blaze 
which foretells good luck to farmers, as it shone in 
the hedge on the left-hand side of the road, she 
caught sight of the brooch in Miss Kitty’s lace 
shawl. Through a gap in the wood the light from 
the western sky danced among the diamonds. But 
where one of the precious stones should have been, 
there was a little black hole. 

“ Sister, you’ve lost a stone out of your brooch ! ” 
screamed Miss Betty. The little ladies were well- 
trained, and even in that moment of despair Miss 
Betty would not hint that her sister’s ornaments 
were not her sole property. 

When Miss Kitty burst into tears the parson was 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIRE. 


273 


a little astonished as well as distressed. Men are 
apt to be so, not perhaps because women cry on 
such very small accounts, as because the full reason 
does not always transpire. Tears are often the cli- 
max of nervous exhaustion, and this is commonly the 
result of more causes than one. Ostensibly Miss 
Kitty was “ upset ” by the loss of the diamond, but 
she also wept away a good deal of the vexation of 
her unequal conflict with the sarcastic lawyer, and 
of all this the parson knew nothing. 

Miss Betty knew nothing of that, but she knew 
enough of things in general to feel sure the diamond 
was not all the matter. 

“ What is amiss, sister Kitty ? ” said she. “ Have 
you hurt yourself? Do you feel ill? Did you 
know the stone was out ? ” “ I hope you’re not 

going to be hysterical, sister Kitty,” added Miss 
Betty anxiously; “ there never was a hysterical 
woman in our family yet.” 

“ Oh dear no, sister Betty,” sobbed Miss Kitty ; 
“ but it’s all my fault. I know I was fidgeting with 
it while I was talking ; and it’s a punishment on my 
fidgety ways, and for ever presuming to wear it at 
all, when you’re the head of the family, and solely 
entitled to it. And I shall never forgive myself if 
it’s lost, and if it’s found I’ll never, never wear it any 
more.” And as she deluged her best company 


274 


LOB LIE-B T-THE-FIRE. 


pocket-handkerchief (for the useful one was in a big 
pocket under her dress, and could not be got at, the 
parson being present), church, state, the royal 
Family, the family Bible, her highest principles, her 
dearest affections, and the diamond brooch, all seemed 
to swim before her disturbed mind in one sea of 
desolation. 

There was not a kinder heart than the parson’s 
toward women and children in distress. He tucked 
the little ladies again under his arms, and insisted 
upon going back to Mrs. Dunmaw’s, searching the 
lane as they went. In the pulpit or the drawing- 
room a ready anecdote never failed him, and on this 
occasion he had several. Tales of lost rings, and 
even single gems, recovered in the most marvelous 
manner and the most unexpected places — dug up in 
gardens, served up to dinner in fishes, and so forth. 
“ Never,” said Miss Kitty, afterward, “ never, to 
her dying day, could she forget his kindness.” 

She clung to the parson as a support under both 
her sources of trouble, but Miss Betty ran on and 
back, and hither and thither, looking for the 
diamond. Miss Kitty and the parson looked too, and 
how many aggravating little bits of glass and silica, 
and shining nothings and good-for-nothings there are 
in the world, no one would believe who has not 
looked for a lost diamond on a high road. 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIRE. 


275 


But another story of found jewels was to be added 
to the parson’s stock. He had bent his long back for 
about the eighteenth time, when such a shimmer as 
no glass or silica can give flashed into his eyes, and 
he caught up the diamond out of the dust, and it 
fitted exactly into the little black hole. 

Miss Kitty uttered a cry, and at the same moment 
Miss Betty, who was farther down the road, did the 
same, and these were followed by a third, which 
sounded like a mocking echo of both. And then 
the sisters rushed together. 

“ A most miraculous discovery ! ” gasped Miss 
Betty. 

“ You must have passed the very spot before,” 
cried Miss Kitty. 

“ Though I’m sure, sister, what to do with it now 
we have found it I don’t know,” said Miss Betty, 
rubbing her nose, as she was wont to do when 
puzzled. 

“ It shall be taken better care of for the future, 
sister Betty,” said Miss Kitty, penitently. “ Though 
how it got out I can’t think now.” 

“ Why, bless my soul ! you don’t suppose it got 
there of itself, sister ? ” snapped Miss Betty. “ How 
did it get there is another matter.” 

“ I felt pretty confident about it, for my own 
part,” smiled the parson as he joined them. 


276 


LOB LIE-B T-THE-FIRE. 


“ Do you mean to say, sir, that you knew it was 
there ? ” asked Miss Betty solemnly. 

“ I didn’t know the precise spot, my dear madam, 
but ” 

“ You didn’t see it, sir, I hope ? ” said Miss Betty. 

“ Bless me, my dear madam, I found it ! ” cried 
the parson. 

Miss Betty bridled and bit her lip. 

“ I never contradict a clergyman, sir,” said she, 
“ but I can only say that if you did see it, it was 
not like your usual humanity to leave it lying 
there.” 

“ Why, I’ve got it in my hand, ma’am ! ” “ He’s got 
it in his hand, sister ! ” cried the parson and Miss 
Kitty in one breath. Miss Betty was too much puz- 
zled to be polite. 

“ What are you talking about ? ” she asked. 

“ The diamond, oh dear, oh dear ! The diamond! ” 
cried Miss Kitty. But what are you talking about, 
sister ? ” 

“ The baby” said Miss Betty. 

WHAT MISS BETTY FOUND. 

It was under a broom-bush. Miss Betty was 
poking her nose near the bank that bordered the 
wood, in her hunt for the diamond, when she caught 
sight of a mass of yellow of a deeper tint that the 


LOB LIE-BY-THE-FIRE. 


277 


mass of broom-blossom above it, and this was the 
baby. 

This vivid color, less opaque than “ deep chrome ” 
and a shade more orange, seems to have a peculiar 
attraction for wandering tribes. Gypsies use it, and 
it is a favorite color with Indian squaws. To the 
last dirty rag it is effective, whether it flutters near 
a tent on Bagshot Heath, or in some wigwam door- 
way makes a point of brightness against the gray 
shadows of the pine forest. 

A large kerchief of this, wound about its body 
was the baby’s only robe, but he seemed quite com- 
fortable in it when Miss Betty found him, sleeping 
on a pillow of deep hair moss, his little brown lists 
closed as fast as his eyes, and a crimson toadstool 
grasped in one of them. 

When Miss Betty screamed the baby awoke, and 
his long black lashes tickled his cheeks and made 
him wink and cry. But by the time she returned 
with her sister and the parson, he was quite happy 
again, gazing up with dark eyes full of delight into 
the glowing broom bush, and fighting the evening 
breeze with his feet, which were entangled in the 
folds of the yellow cloth, and with the battered toad- 
stool which was still in his hand. 

“ And, indeed, sir,” said Miss Betty, who had 
rubbed her nose till it looked like the twin toadstool 


278 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIRE. 


to that which the baby was flourishing in her face, 
“ you won’t suppose I would have left the poor little 
thing another moment, to catch its death of cold on 
a warm evening like this ; but having no experience 
of such cases, and remembering that murder at the 
inn in the Black Yalley, and that the body was not 
allowed to be moved till the constables had seen it, 
I didn’t feel to know how it might be with found- 
lings and ” 

But still Miss Betty did not touch the bairn. She 
was not accustomed to children. But the parson had 
christened too many babies to be afraid of them, 
and he picked up the little fellow in a moment, and 
tucked the yellow rag round him, and then address- 
ing the little ladies precisely as if they were spon- 
sors, he asked in his deep round voice, “ Now where 
on the face of earth are the vagabonds who have de- 
serted this child 1 ” 

The little ladies did not know, the broom bushes 
were silent, and the question has remained unan- 
swered from that day to this. 

THE BABY, THE LAWYER, AND THE 
PARSON. 

There were no railways near Lingborough at this 
time. The coach ran three times a week, and a 
walking postman brought the letters from the town 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIRE. 


279 


to the small hamlets. Telegraph wires were unknown 
and yet news traveled quite as fast then as it does 
now, and in the course of the following morning all 
the neighborhood knew that Miss Betty had found 
a baby under a broom bush, and the lawyer 
called in the afternoon to inquire how the ladies 
found themselves after the tea party at Mrs. General 
Dunmaw’s. 

Miss Kitty was glad on the whole. She felt nerv- 
ous, but ready for a renewal of hostilities. Several 
clinching arguments had occurred to her in bed last 
night, and after hastily looking up a few lines from 
her commonplace book, which always made her cry 
when she read them, but which she hoped to be 
able to hurl at the lawyer with a steady voice, she 
followed Miss Betty to the drawing-room. 

It was half a relief and half a disappointment to 
find that the lawyer was quite indifferent to the sub- 
ject of their late contest. He overflowed with com- 
pliments ; was quite sure he must have had the 
worst of the argument, and positively dying of 
curiosity to hear about the baby. 

The little ladies were very full of the subject 
themselves. An active search for the baby’s rela- 
tions, conducted by the parson, the clerk, the farm- 
bailiff, the constable, the cowherd, and several su- 
pernumeraries, had so far proved quite vain. The 


280 


LOB LIE-BY-THE-F1RE. 


country folk were most anxious to assist, especially 
by word of mouth. Except a small but sturdy num- 
ber who had seen nothing, they had all seen 
“ tramps,” but unluckily no two could be got to- 
gether whose accounts of the tramps themselves, of 
the hour at which they were seen, or of the direc- 
tion in which they went, would tally with each other. 

The little ladies were quite alive to the possibility 
that the child’s parents might never be traced ; in- 
deed the matter had been constantly before their 
minds ever since the parson had carried the baby to 
Lingborough, and laid it in the arms of Thomasina, 
the servant. 

Miss Betty had sat long before her toilette-table 
that evening, gazing vacantly at the looking-glass. 
Not that the reflection of the eight curl-papers she 
had neatly twisted up was conveyed to her brain. 
She was in a brown study, during which the follow- 
ing thoughts passed through her mind, and they all 
pointed one way. 

That that fine little fellow was not to blame for 
his people’s misconduct. 

That they would never be found. 

That it would probably be the means of the 
poor child’s ruin, body and soul, if they were. 

That the master of the neighboring workhouse 
bore a bad character. 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIRE. 


281 


That a child costs nothing to keep — where cows 
are kept too — for years. 

That just at the age when a boy begins to 
eat dreadfully and wear out his clothes, he is 
very useful on a farm (though not for these rea- 
sons). 

That Thomasina had taken to him. 

That there need be no nonsense about it, as he could 
be brought up in his proper station in life in the 
kitchen and the farmyard. 

That tramps have souls. 

That he would be taught to say his prayers. 

Miss Betty said hers, and went to bed ; but all 
through that midsummer night the baby kept her 
awake, or flaunted his yellow robe and crimson 
toadstool through her dreams. 

The morning brought no change in Miss Betty’s 
views, but she felt doubtful as to how her sister would 
receive them. Would she regard them as foolish 
and unpractical, and her respect for Miss Betty’s 
opinion be lessened thenceforward \ 

The fear was needless. Miss Kitty was romantic 
and imaginative. She had carried the baby through 
his boyhood about the Lingborough fields while she 
was dressing ; and he was attending her own fu- 
neral in the capacity of an attached and faithful 
servant, in black livery with worsted frogs, as she 


282 


LOB L1E-B Y-THE-FIRE. 


sprinkled salt on her buttered toast at breakfast, 
when she was startled from this affecting day dream 
by Miss Betty’s voice. 

“ Dear sister Kitty, I wish to consult you as to 
our plans in the event of those wicked people who 
deserted the baby not being found.” 

The little ladies resolved that not an inkling of 
their benevolent scheme must be betrayed to the 
lawyer. But they dissembled awkwardly, and the 
tone in which they spoke of the tramp-baby roused 
the lawyer’s quick suspicions. He had a real respect 
for the little ladies, and was kindly anxious to save 
them from their own indiscretion. 

• “ My dear ladies,” said he, “ I do hope your benev- 
olence — may I say your romantic benevolence ? — of 
disposition is not tempting you to adopt this gypsy 
waif?” 

“ I hope we know what is due to ourselves, and to 
the estate — small as it is — sir,” said Miss Betty, “ as 
well as to providence, too well to attempt to raise 
any child, however handsome, from that station of 
life in which he was born.” 

“ Bless me, madam ! I never dreamed you would 
adopt a beggar child as your heir ; but I hope you 
mean to send it to the workhouse, if the gypsy 
tramps it belongs to are not to be found ? ” 

“ We have not made up our minds, sir, as to the 


LOB LIE-B Y-TE E-FIRE. 


283 


course we propose to pursue,” said Miss Betty, 
with outward dignity proportioned to her inward 
doubts. 

“My dear ladies,” said the lawyer, anxiously, 
“ let me implore you not to be rash. To adopt a 
child in the most favorable circumstances is the 
greatest of risks. But if your benevolence will take 
that line, pray adopt some little boy out of one of 
your tenant’s families. Even your teaching will not 
make him brilliant, as he is likely to inherit the 
minimum of intellectual capacity ; but he will learn 
his catechism, probably grow up respectable, and 
possibly grateful, since his forefathers have (so Miss 
Kitty assures me) had all these virtues for genera- 
tions. But this baby is the child of a heathen, bar- 
barous, and wandering race. The propensities of 
the vagabonds who have deserted him are in every 
drop of his blood. All the parsons in the diocese 
won’t make a Christian of him, and when (after 
anxieties I shudder to foresee) you flatter yourselves 
that he is civilized, he will run away and leave his 
shoes and stockings behind him.” 

“ He has a soul to be saved, if he is a gypsy,” 
said Miss Kitty, hysterically. 

“ The soul, my dear Miss Kitty ” — began the law- 
yer, facing round upon her. 

“ Don’t say anything dreadful about the soul, sir, 


284 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIHE. 


I beg,” said Miss Betty, firmly. And then she 
added in a conciliatory tone, “ Won’t you look at 
the little fellow, sir? I have no doubt his relations 
are shocking people ; but when you see his innocent 
little face and his beautiful eyes, I think you’ll say 
yourself that if he were a duke’s son he couldn’t be 
a finer child.” 

“My experience of babies is so limited, Miss 
Betty,” said the lawyer, “ that really — if you’ll ex- 
cuse me — but I can quite imagine him. I have 
before now been tempted myself to adopt stray — 
puppies, when I have seen them in the round, soft, 
innocent, bright-eyed stage. And when they have 
grown up in the hands of more credulous friends into 
lanky, ill-conditioned, misconducted curs, I have 
congratulated myself that I was not misled by the 
graces of an age at which ill-breeding is less appar- 
ent than later in life.” 

The little ladies both rose. “ If you see no differ- 
ence, sir, ” said Miss Betty in her stateliest manner, 
“between a babe with an immortal soul and the 
beasts that perish, it is quite useless to prolong the 
conversation.” 

“ Beason is apt to be useless when opposed to the 
generous impulses of a sex so full of sentiment as 
yours, madam,” said the lawyer, rising also. “ Per- 
mit me to take a long farewell, since it is improba- 


LOB LIE-B T-THE-FIRE. 


285 


ble that our friendship will resume its old position 
until your protege has — run away.” 

The words “ long farewell ” and “ old friendship ” 
were quite sufficient to soften wrath in the tender 
hearts of the little ladies. But the lawyer had 
really lost his temper, and before Miss Betty had 
decided how to offer the olive branch without con- 
ceding her principles he was gone. 

The weather was warm. The little ladies were 
heated by discussion and the parson by vain scour- 
ing of the country on foot, when they asked his ad- 
vice upon their project, and related their conversa- 
tion with the lawyer. The two gentleman had so 
little in common that the parson felt it his duty not 
to let his advice be prejudiced by this fact. For 
some moments he sat silent, then he began to walk 
about as if he were composing a sermon ; then he 
stepped before the little ladies (who were sitting as 
stiffly on the sofa as if it were a pew) and spoke as if 
he were delivering one. 

“ If you ask me, dear ladies, whether it is your 
duty to provide for this child because you found him, 
I say that there is no such obligation. If you ask 
if I think it wise in your own interests, and hopeful 
as to the boy’s career, I am obliged to agree with 
your legal adviser. Vagabond ways are seldom 
cured in one generation, and I think it is quite prob- 


286 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIBE. 


able that, after much trouble and anxiety spent 
upon him, he may go back to a wandering life. But 
Miss Betty,” continued the parson in deepening 
tones, as he pounded his left palm with his right 
fist for want of a pulpit, “ If you ask me whether I 
believe any child of any race is born incapable of 
improvement, and beyond benefit from the charities 
we owe to each other, I should deny my faith if I 
could say yes. I shall not, madam, confuse the end 
of your connection with him with the end of your 
training in him, even if he runs away, or fancy that 
I see the one because I see the other. I do not pre- 
tend to know how much evil he inherits from his 
forefathers as accurately as our graphic friend ; but 
I do know that he has a Father whose image is also 
to be found in His children — not quite effaced in any 
of them — and whose care of this one will last when 
yours, madam, may seem to have been in vain.” 

As the little ladies rushed forward and each shook 
a hand of the parson, he felt some compunction for 
his speech. 

“ I fear I am encouraging you in grave indiscre 
tion,” said he. “ But, indeed, my dear ladies, I am 
quite against your project, for you do not realize the 
anxieties and disappointments that are before you, 
I am sure. The child will give you infinite trouble. 
I think he will run away. And yet I cannot in 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIRE. 


287 


good conscience say that I believe love’s labor must 
be lost. He may return to the woods and wilds ; 
but I hope he will carry something with him.” 

“ Did the reverend gentleman mean Miss Betty’s 
tea-spoons ! ” asked the lawyer, stroking his long 
chin, when he was told what the parson had said. 

BABYHOOD — PRETTY FLOWERS — THE 
ROSE COLORED TULIPS. 

The matter of the baby’s cap disturbed the little 
ladies. It seemed so like the beginning of a fulfill- 
ment of the lawyer’s croakings. 

Miss Kitty had made it. She had never seen a 
baby without a cap before, and the sight was un- 
usual, if not indecent. But Miss Kitty was a quick 
needlewoman, and when the new cap was fairly tied 
over the thick crop of silky black hair, the baby 
looked so much less like Puck, and so much more 
like the rest of the baby world, that it was quite a 
relief. 

Miss Kitty’s feelings may therefore be imagined 
when going to the baby just after the parson’s de- 
parture, she found him in open rebellion against his 
cap. It had been tied on while he was asleep, and 
his eyes were no sooner open than he commenced 
the attack. He pulled with one little brown hand 
and tugged with the other, he dragged a rosette 


288 


LOB LIE-B T-TH E-FIRE. 


over his nose and got the frills into his eyes ; he 
worried it as a puppy worries your handkerchief if 
you tie it round its face and tell it to “ look like a 
grandmother.” At last the strings gave way, and 
he cast it triumphantly out of the clothes-basket 
which served him for cradle. 

Successive efforts to induce him to wear it proved 
vain, so Thomasina said the weather was warm and 
his hair was very thick, and she parted this and 
brushed it, and Miss Kitty gave the cap to the farm 
bailiff’s baby, who took to it as kindly as a dumpling 
to a pudding-cloth. 

How the boy was ever kept inside his christening 
clothes, Thomasina said she did not know. But 
when he got into the parson’s arms he lay quite 
quiet, which was a good omen. That he might lack 
no advantage, Miss Betty stood godmother for him, 
and the parish clerk and the sexton were his god- 
fathers. 

He was named John. 

“ A plain, sensible name,” said Miss Betty. “ And 
while we are about it,” she added, “ we may as well 
choose his surname. For a surname he must have, 
and the sooner it is decided upon the better.” 

Miss Kitty had made a list of twenty-seven of her 
favorite Christian names which Miss Betty had 
sternly rejected, that everything might be plain, 


LOB LIE-B T-THE-FIRE. 


!89 


practical, and respectable at the outset of the tramp- 
child’s career. For the same reason she refused to 
adopt Miss Kitty’s suggestions for a surname. 

“ It’s so seldom there’s a chance of choosing a sur- 
name for anybody, sister,” said Miss Kitty, “ it seems 
a pity not to choose a pretty one.” 

“ Sister Kitty,” said Miss Betty, “ don’t be roman- 
tic. The boy is to be brought up in that station of 
life for which one syllable is ample. I should have 
called him Smith if that had not been Thomasina’s 
name. As it is, I propose to call him Broom. He 
was found under a bush of broom, and it goes very 
well with John, and sounds plain and respectable.” 

So Miss Betty bought a Bible, and on the fly-leaf 
of it she wrote in her fine, round gentlewoman’s 
writing — “ John Broom. With good wishes for 
his welfare, temporal and eternal. From a sincere 
friend.” And when the inscription was dry the 
Bible was wrapped in brown paper, and put by in 
Thomasina’s trunk till John Broom should come 
to years of discretion. 

He was slow to reach them, though in other 
respects he grew fast. 

When he began to walk he would walk barefoot. 
To be out of doors was his delight, but on the 
threshold of the house he always sat down and dis- 
carded his shoes and stockings. Thomasina 


290 


LOB LIE-BY-THE-FIRE. 


bastinadoed the soles of his feet with the soles of his 
shoes “ to teach him the use of them,” so she said. 
But Miss Kitty sighed and thought of the lawyer’s 
prediction. 

There was no blinking the fact that the child 
was as troublesome as he was pretty. The very 
demon of mischief danced in his black eyes, and 
seemed to possess his feet and fingers as if with 
quicksilver. And if, as Thomasina said, you “ never 
knew what he would be at next,” you might also be 
pretty sure that it would be something he ought to 
have left undone. 

John Broom early developed a taste for glass and 
crockery, and as the china cupboard was in that 
part of the house to which he by social standing 
also belonged, he had many chances to seize upon 
cups, jugs and dishes. If detected with anything 
that he ought not to have had, it was his custom to 
drop the forbidden toy and toddle off as fast as his 
unpracticed feet would carry him. The havoc 
which this caused among the glass and china was 
bewildering in a household where tea-sets and 
dinner-sets had passed from generation to genera 
tion, where slapdash, giddy-pated kitchenmaids 
never came, where Miss Betty washed the best tea- 
cups in the parlor, w T here Thomasina was more 
careful than her mistress, and the breaking of a 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIRE. 


291 


single plate was a serious matter, and if beyond 
riveting, a misfortune. 

Thomasina soon found that her charge was safest, 
as he was happiest, out of doors. A very successful 
device was to shut him up in the drying-ground, 
and tell him to “ pick the pretty flowers.” John 
Broom preferred flowers even to china cups with 
gilding on them. He gathered nosegays of daisies 
and buttercups, and the winning way in which he 
would present these to the little ladies atoned, in 
their benevolent eyes, for many a smashed tea- 
cup. 

But the tramp-baby’s restless spirit was soon 
weary of the drying ground, and he set forth one 
morning in search of “fresh fields and pastures 
new.” He had seated himself on the threshold to 
take off his shoes, when he heard the sound of 
Thomasina’s footsteps, and, hastily staggering to 
his feet, toddled forth without farther delay. The 
sky was blue above him, the sun was shining, and 
the air was very sweet. He ran for a bit and then 
tumbled, and picked himself up, again, and got a 
fresh impetus, and so on till he reached the door of 
the kitchen garden, which was open. It was an 
old-fashioned kitchen garden with flowers in the 
borders. There were single rose-colored tulips 
which had been in the garden as long as Miss Betty 


292 


LOB LIE-B T-THE-FIRE. 


could remember, and they had been so increased by 
dividing the clumps that they now stretched in two 
rich lines of color down both sides of the long walk. 
And John Broom saw them. 

“Pick the pretty Powers, love,” said he, in 
imitation of Thomasina’s patronizing tone, and 
forthwith beginning at the end, he went steadily to 
the top of the right hand border, mowing the rose- 
colored tulips as he went. 

Meanwhile, when Thomasina came to look for 
him, he could not be found, and when all the back 
premises and the drying-ground had been searched 
in vain, she gave the alarm to the little ladies. 

Miss Kitty’s vivid imagination leaped at once to 
the conclusion that the child’s vagabond relations 
had fetched him away, and she became rigid with 
alarm. But Miss Betty rushed out into the shrub- 
bery and Miss Kitty took a whiff of her vinaigrette 
and followed her. 

When they came at last to the kitchen garden, 
Miss Betty’s grief for the loss of John Broom did not 
prevent her observing that there was something odd 
about the borders, and when she got to the top, and 
found that all the tulips had been picked from one 
side, she sank down on the roller which happened 
to be lying beside her. 

And John Broom staggered up to her, and crying 


LOB LIE-B Y- TH E-FIRE. 293 

“For ’oo, Miss Betty,” fell headlong with a sheaf 
of rose-colored tulips into her lap. 

As he did not offer any to Miss Kitty, her better 
judgment was not warped, and she said, “You 
must slap him, sister Betty.” 

“ Put out your hand, John Broom,” said Miss 
Betty, much agitated. 

And John Broom, who was quite composed, put 
out both his little grubby paws so trustfully that 
Miss Betty had not the heart to strike him. But 
she scolded him, “ Naughty boy ! ” and she pointed 
to the tulips and shook her head. John Broom 
looked thoughtfully at them, and shook his. 

“ Naughty boy ! ” repeated Miss Betty, and she 
added in very impressive tones, “ John Broom’s a 
very naughty boy ! ” 

After which she took him to Thomasina, and 
Miss Kitty collected the rose-colored tulips and put 
them into water in the best old china punch-bowl. 

In the course of the afternoon she peeped into 
the kitchen, where John Broom sat on the floor, 
under the window, gazing thoughtfully up into the 
sky. 

“ As good as gold, bless his little heart ! ” mur- 
mured Miss Kitty. For as his feet were tucked 
under him, she did not know that he had just 
put his shoes and stockings into the pig-tub, into 


294 


LOB LIE-B T-TBE-FIRE. 


which he all but fell himself from the exertion. 
He did not hear Miss Kitty, and thought on. He 
wanted to be out again, and he had a tantalizing 
remembrance of the ease with which the tender 
juicy stalks of the tulips went snap, snap, in that 
new place of amusement he had discovered. 
Thomasina looked into the kitchen and went away 
again. When she had gone, John Broom went 
away also. 

He went both faster and steadier on his bare 
feet, and when he got into the kitchen garden, it 
recalled Miss Betty to his mind. And he shook 
his head, and said, “ Haughty boy ! ” And then he 
went up the left-hand border, mowing the tulips as 
he went; after which he trotted home, and met 
Thomasina at the back door. And he hugged the 
sheaf of rose-colored tulips in his arms, and said, 
“John Broom a very naughty boy!” 

Thomasina was not sentimental, and she slapped 
him well— his hands for picking the tulips and his 
feet for going barefoot. 

But his feet had to be slapped with Thomasina’s 
slipper, for his own shoes could not be found. 

EDUCATION— FIRESIDE TALES. 

In spite of all his pranks, J ohn Broom did not 
lose the favor of his friends. Thomasina spoiled 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIBE, 


295 


him, and Miss Betty and Miss Kitty tried not to 
do so. 

The parson had said, “Treat the child fairly. 
Bring him np as he will have to live hereafter. 
Don’t make him half pet and half servant.” And 
following this advice, and her own resolve that there 
should be “ no nonsense ” in the matter, Miss Betty 
had made it a rule that he should not be admitted to 
the parlor. It bore more heavily on the tender 
hearts of the little ladies than on the light heart of 
John Broom, and led to their waylaying him in the 
passages and gardens with little gifts unknown to 
each other. And when Miss Kitty kissed his newly 
washed cheeks, and pronounced them “ like ripe 
russets,” Miss Betty murmured, “ Be judicions, sister 
Kitty ; ” and Miss Kitty would correct any possible 
ill effects by saying, “Now make your bow to your 
betters, John Broom, and say, ‘Thank you, 
ma’am ! ’ ” which was accomplished by the child’s 
giving a tug to the forelock of his thick black hair, 
with a world of mischief in his eyes. 

When he was old enough, the little ladies sent him 
to the village school. 

The total failure of their hopes for his education 
was not the smallest of the disappointments Miss 
Betty and Miss Kitty endured on his behalf. The 
quarrel with the lawyer had been made up long ago, 


296 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIHE. 


and though there was always a touch of raillery in 
his inquiries after “ the young gypsy,” he had once 
said, “If he turns out anything of a genius at school, 
I might find a place Jor him in the office, by and by.” 
The lawyer was kind-hearted in his own fashion, 
and on this hint Miss Kitty built up hopes, which 
unhappily were met by no responsive ambition in 
John Broom. 

As to his fitness to be an errand boy, he could 
not carry a message from the kitchen to the cow- 
house without stopping by the way to play with the 
yard-dog, and a hedgehog in the path would prob- 
ably have led him astray, if Thomasina had had a fit 
and he had been despatched for a doctor. 

During school hours he spent most of his time 
under the fool’s-cap when he was not playing truant. 
With his schoolmates he was good friends. If he 
was seldom out of mischief he was seldom out of 
temper. He could beat any boy at a foot race 
(without shoes) ; he knew the notes and nests of 
every bird that sang, and whatever an old pocket- 
knife is capable of, that John Broom could and 
would do with it for his fellows. 

Miss Betty had herself tried to teach him to read, 
and she continued to be responsible for his religious 
instruction. She had tried to stir up his industry by 
showing him the Bible, and promising that when he 


LOB LIE-B T-THE-FIRE. 


297 


could read it he should have it for his “ very own.” 
But he either could not or would not apply himself, 
so the prize lay unearned in Thomasina’s trunk. 
But he would listen for any length of time to 
Scripture stories if they were read or told to him, 
especially to the history of Elisha, and the adven- 
tures of the Judges. 

Indeed, since he could no longer be shut up in the 
drying-ground, Thomasina had found that he was 
never so happy and so safe as when he was listening 
to tales, and many a long winter evening he lay idle 
on the kitchen hearth, with his head on the sheep 
dog, while the more industrious Thomasina plied her 
knitting-needles, as she sat in the ingle-nook, with 
the flickering firelight playing among the plaits of 
her large cap, and told tales of the country side. 

Not that John Broom was her only hearer. Annie 
“ the lass ” sat by the hearth also, and Thomasina 
took care that she did not “ sit with her hands be- 
fore her.” And a little farther away sat the 
cowherd. 

He had a sleeping-room above the barn, and took 
his meals in the house. By Miss Betty’s desire he 
always went in to family prayers after supper, when 
he sat as close as possible to the door, under an un- 
comfortable consciousness that Thomasina did not 
think his boots clean enough for the occasion, and 


298 


LOB LIE-BY-TEE-FIRE 


would find something to pick off the carpet as she 
followed him out, however hardly he might have 
used the door-scraper beforehand. 

It might be a difficult matter to decide which lit 
liked best, beer or John Broom. But next to tnese 
he liked Thomasina’s stories. 

Thomasina was kind to him. With all his failings 
and the dirt on his boots, she liked him better than 
the farm-bailiff. The farm-bailiff was thrifty and 
sensible and faithful, and Thomasina was faithful 
and sensible and thrifty, and they each had a ten- 
dency to claim the monopoly of those virtues. Not- 
able people complain, very properly, of thriftless and 
untidy ones, but they sometimes agree better with 
them than with rival notabilities. And so Thoma- 
sina’s broad face beamed benevolently as she bid the 
cowherd “ draw up ” to the fire, and he who (like 
Thomasina) was a native of the country, would 
confirm the marvels she related, with a proper 
pride in the wonderful district to which they both 
belonged. 

He would help her out sometimes with names and 
dates in a local biography. By his own account he 
knew the man who was murdered at the inn in the 
Black Yalley so intimately that it turned Annie the 
lass as white as a dish-cloth to sit beside him. If 
Thomasina said that folk were yet alive who had 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIRE. 


2P9 


seen the little green men dance in Dawborough 
Croft, the cowherd would smack his knees and cry, 
“ Scores on ’em ! ” And when she w T hispered of the 
white figure which stood at the cross roads after 
midnight, he testified to having seen it himself — tall 
beyond mortal height, and pointing four ways at 
once. He had a legend of his own too, which 
Thomasina sometimes gave him the chance of tell- 
ing, of how he was followed home one moonlight 
night by a black Something as big as a young calf, 
which “ wimmled and wammled ” around him till 
he fell senseless into the ditch, and being found 
there by the farm-bailiff on his return from market, 
was unjustly accused of the vice of intoxication. 

“ Fault-finders should be free of flaws,” Thomasina 
would say with a prim chin. She had seen the 
farm-bailiff himself “ the worse ” for more than his 
supper beer. 

But there was one history which Thomasina was 
always loth to relate, and it was that which both 
John Broom and the cowherd especially preferred — 
the history of Lob Lie-by-the-fire. 

Thomasina had a feeling (which was shared by 
Annie the lass) that it was better not to talk of 
“ anything ” peculiar to the bouse in which you were 
living. One’s neighbors’ ghosts and bogles are 
another matter. 


300 


LOB LIE-B Y- TH E-FIRE. 


But to John Broom and the cowherd no subject 
was so interesting as that of the Lubber-fiend. The 
cowherd sighed to think of the good old times 
when a man might sleep on in spite of cocks, and the 
stables be cleaner, and the beasts better tended than 
if he had been up with the lark. And John 
Broom’s curiosity was never quenched about the 
rough, hairy good fellow who worked at night that 
others might be idle by day, and who was some- 
times caught at his hard earned nap, lying, “ like a 
great hurgin bear,” where the boy loved to lie 
himself, before the fire, on this very hearth. 

Why and where he had gone, Thomasina could 
not tell. She had heard that he had originally 
come from some other household, where he had 
been offended. But whether he had gone elsewhere 
when he forsook Lingborough, or whether “such 
things had left the country ” for good, she did not 
pretend to say. 

And when she had told, for the third or fourth 
time, how his porridge was put into a corner of the 
cowhouse for him overnight, and how he had been 
often overheard at his work, but rarely seen, and 
then only lying before the fire, Miss Betty would 
ring for prayers, and Thomasina would fold up her 
knitting and lead the way, followed by Annie the 
lass, whose nerves John Broom would startle by 


LOB LIE-B 7- THK-FIRE. 


301 


treading on her heels, the rear being brought up by 
the cowherd, looking hopelessly at his boots. 

THE FAEM BAILIFF— PEETTY COCKY— 
IN THE WILLOW TEEE. 

Miss Betty and Miss Kitty did really deny them- 
selves the indulgence of being indulgent, and 
treated John Broom on principles, and for his good. 
But they did so in their own tremulous and spas- 
modic way, and got little credit for it. Thomasina, 
on the other hand, spoiled him with such a master- 
ful managing air, and so much sensible talk, that no 
one would have thought that the only system she 
followed was to conceal his misdemeanors and to 
stand between him and the just wrath of the farm- 
bailiff. 

The farm-bailiff, or grieve, as he liked to call 
himself, was a Scotchman, with a hard-featured 
face (which he washed on the Sabbath), a harsh 
voice, a good heart rather deeper down in his body 
than is usual, and a shrewd, money-getting head, 
with a speckled straw hat on the top of it. No 
one could venture to imagine when that hat was new, 
or how long ago it was that the farm-bailiff went to 
the expense of purchasing those work-day clothes. 
But the dirt on his face and neck was an orderly 
accumulation, such as gathers on walls, oil-paintings, 


302 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIRE. 


and other places to which soap is not habitually 
applied ; it was not a matter of spills and splashes, 
like the dirt John Broom disgraced himself with. 
And his clothes, if old, fitted neatly about him; 
they never suggested raggedness, which was the 
normal condition of the tramp-boy’s jackets. They 
only looked as if he had been born (and occasionally 
buried) in them. It is needful to make this distinc- 
tion, that the good man may not be accused of 
inconsistency in the peculiar vexation which John 
Broom’s disorderly appearance caused him. 

In truth, Miss Betty’s protege had reached the 
age at which he was to “ eat dreadfully, wear out 
his clothes, and be useful on the farm ; ” and the 
last condition was quite unfulfilled. At eleven 
years old he could not be trusted to scare birds, and 
at half that age the farm-bailiff’s eldest child could 
drive cattle. 

“ And no’ just ruin the leddies in new coats and 
compliments, either, like some ne’er-do-weels,” added 
the farm-bailiff, who had heard with a jealous ear of 
sixpences given by Miss Betty and Miss Kitty to 
their wasteful favorite. 

When the eleventh anniversary of John Broom’s 
discovery was passed, and his character at school 
gave no hopes of his ever qualifying himself to serve 
the lawyer, it was resolved that — “idleness being 


LOB LIE-BY-THE-EIBE. 


303 


the mother of mischief,” he should be put under the 
care of the farm-bailiff, to do such odd jobs about 
the place as might be suited to his capacity and love 
of out-door life. And now John Broom’s troubles 
began. By fair means or foul, with here an hour’s 
weeding and there a day’s bird scaring, and with 
errands perpetual, the farm-bailiff contrived to “ get 
some work out of ” the idle little urchin. His 
speckled hat and grim face seemed to be every- 
where, and always to pop up when John Broom 
began to play. 

They lived “ at daggers drawn.” I am sorry to 
say that John Broom’s fitful industry was still kept 
tor his own fancies. To climb trees, to run races 
with the sheep dog, to cut grotesque sticks, gather 
hedge fruits, explore a bog, or make new friends 
among beasts and birds — at such matters he would 
labor with feverish zeal. But so far from trying to 
cure himself of his indolence about daily drudgery, 
he found a new and pleasant excitement in thwart- 
ing the farm-bailiff at every turn. 

It would not sound dignified to say that the farm- 
bailiff took pleasure in thwarting John Broom. But 
he certainly did not show his satisfaction when the 
boy did do his work properly. Perhaps he thought 
that praise is not good for young people ; and the 
child did not often give him a chance of trying. Of 


304 


LOB LIE-B Y- THE-FIRE. 


blame he was free enough. Not a good scolding to 
clear the air, such as Thomasina would give to 
Annie the lass, but his slow, caustic tongue was 
always growling, like muttered thunder, over John 
Broom’s incorrigible head. 

He had never approved of the tramp-child, who 
had the overwhelming drawbacks of having no pedi- 
gree and of being a bad bargain as to expense. This 
was not altogether John Broom’s fault but with his 
personal failings the farm-baililf had even less sym- 
pathy. It has been hinted that he was born in the 
speckled hat, and whether this were so or not, he 
certainly had worn an old head while his shoul- 
ders were still young, and could not remember the 
time when he wished to waste his energies on 
anything that did not earn or at least save some- 
thing. 

Once only did anything like approval of the lad 
escape his lips. 

Miss Betty’s uncle’s second cousin had returned 
from foreign lands with a good fortune and several 
white cockatoos. He kept the fortune, himself, but 
he gave the cockatoos to his friends, and he sent- 
one of them to the little ladies of Lingborough. 

He was a lovely creature (the cockatoo, not the 
cousin, who was plain), and John Broom’s admira- 
tion of him was boundless. He gazed at the sulphur 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIllE. 


305 


colored crest, the pure white wings with their 
deeper-tinted lining, and even the beak and the 
fierce round eyes, as he had gazed at the broom 
bush in his babyhood, with insatiable delight. 

The cousin did things handsomely. He had had a 
ring put round one of the cockatoo’s ankles, with a 
bright steel chain attached and a fastener to secure 
it to the perch. The cockatoo was sent in the cage 
by coach, and the perch, made of foreign wood fol- 
lowed by the carrier. 

Miss Betty and Miss Kitty were delighted both 
with the cockatoo and the perch, but they were a 
good deal troubled as to how to fasten the two to- 
gether. There was a neat little ring on the perch, 
and the cockatoo’s chain was quite complete, and 
he evidently wanted to get out, for he shook the 
walls, of his cage in his gambols. But he put up his 
crest and snapped when any one approached, in a 
manner so alarming that Annie the lass shut herself 
up in the dairy and the farm-bailiff turned his 
speckled hat in his hands, and gave cautious coun 
sel from a safe distance. 

“ How he flaps ! ” cried Miss Betty. “ I’m afraid 
he has a very vicious temper.” 

“ He only wants to get out, Miss Betty,” said John 
Broom. “ He’d be all right with his perch, and I* 
think I can get him on it.” 


306 


LOB L1E-BY-TEE-EIRE. 


“ How heaven save us from the sin o’ presump 
tion ! ” cried the farm-bailiff, and putting on the 
speckled hat, he added, slowly: “I’m thinking, 
John Broom, that if ye’re engaged wi’ the leddies 
this morning it’ll be time I turned my hand to sing- 
ling these few turnips ye’ve been thinking about the 
week past.” 

On which he departed, and John Broom pressed 
the little ladies to leave him alone with the bird. 

“¥e shouldn’t like to leave you alone with a wild 
creature like that,” said Miss Betty. 

“ He’s just frightened on ye, Miss Betty. He’ll 
be like a lamb when you’re gone,” urged John 
Broom. 

“ Besides, we should like to see you do it,” said 
Miss Kitty. 

“ You can look in through the window, miss. I 
must fasten the door, or he’ll be out.” 

“ I should never forgive myself if he hurt you 
John,” said Miss Betty, irresolutely, for she was 
very anxious to have the cockatoo and perch in full 
glory in the parlor. 

“ He’ll none hurt me, miss,” said John, with a 
cheerful smile on his rosy face. “ I likes him, and 
he’ll like me.” 

This settled the matter. John was left with the 
cockatoo. He locked the door, and the little 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIRE. 


307 


ladies went into the garden and peeped through the 
window. 

They saw John Broom approach the cage, on 
which the cockatoo put up his crest, opened his 
beak slowly, and snarled, and Miss Betty tapped 
on the window and shook her black satin work-bag. 

“Don’t go near him 1 ” she cried. But John Broom 
paid no attention. 

“ What are you putting up that top-knot of yours 
at me for ? ” said he to the cockatoo. “ Don’t ye 
know your own friends ? I’m going to let ye out, 
I am. You’re going on to your perch, you are.” 

“Eh, but you’re a bonny creature !” he added, as 
the cockatoo filled the cage with snow and sulphur 
flutterings. 

“Keep away, keep away!” screamed the little 
ladies, playing a duet on the window panes. 

“ Out with you ! ” said John Broom, as he unfas- 
tened the cage door. 

And just when Miss Betty had run round, and as 
she shouted through the keyhole, “ Open the door, 
John Broom, we’ve changed our minds; we’ve de- 
cided to keep it in its cage,” the cockatoo strode 
solemnly forth on his eight long toes. 

“ Pretty Cocky ! ” said he. 

When Miss Betty got back to the window, John 
Broom had just made an injudicious grab at the 


308 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIRE. 


steel chain, on which Pretty Cocky flew fiercely at 
him, and John, burying his face in his arms, re- 
ceived the attack on his thick poll, laughing into his 
sleeve and holding fast to the chain, while the 
cockatoo and the little ladies screamed against each 
other. 

“ It’ll break your leg — you’ll tear its eyes out ! ” 
cried Miss Kitty. 

“ Miss Kitty means that you’ll break its leg, and 
it will tear your eyes out,” Miss Betty explained 
through the glass. “ John Broom ! Come away ! 
Lock in it ! Let it go ! ” 

But Cocky was now waddling solemnly round the 
room, and John Broom was creeping after him, with 
the end of the chain in one hand, and the perch in 
the other, and in a moment more he had joined the 
chain and the ring, and just as Miss Betty was about 
to send for the constable and have the door broken 
open, Cocky — driven into a corner— clutched his 
perch, and was raised triumphantly to his place in 
the bow-window. 

He was now a parlor pet, and John Broom saw 
little of him. This vexed him, for he had taken a 
passionate liking for the bird. The little ladies re- 
warded him well for his skill, but this brought him 
no favor from the farm-bailiff, and matters went on 
as ill as before. 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIRE. 


309 


One day the cockatoo got his chain entangled, and 
Miss Kitty promptly advanced to put it right. She 
had unfastened that end which secured it to the 
perch, when Cocky, who had been watching the 
preceeding with much interest, dabbed at her with 
his beak. Miss Kitty fled, but with great presence 
of mind shut the door after her. She forgot, how- 
ever, that the window was open, in front of which 
stood the cockatoo scanning the summer sky with 
his fierce eyes, and flipping himself in the breeze. 

And just as the little ladies ran into the garden, 
and Miss Kitty was saying, “ One comfort is, sister 
Betty, its quite safe in the room, till we can think 
what to do next,” he bowed his yellow crest, spread 
his noble wings, and sailed out into the ether. 

In ten minutes the whole able-bodied population 
of the place was in the grounds of Lingborough, in- 
cluding the farm-bailiff. 

The cockatoo was on the top of a fir-tree, and a 
fragment of the chain was with him, for he had 
broken it, and below on the lawn stood the little 
ladies, who, with the unfailing courage of women in 
a hopeless cause, were trying to dislodge him by 
waving their pocket-handkerchiefs and crying 
“ sh ! ” 

He looked composedly down out of one eye for 
some time, and then he began to move. 


310 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIBE. 


“I think it’s coming down now,” said Miss 
Kitty. 

But in a quarter of a minute, Cocky had sailed a 
quarter of a mile, and was rocking himself on the top 
of an old willow-tree. And at this moment John 
Broom joined the crowd which followed him. 

“ I’m thinking he’s got his chain fast,” said the 
farm-bailiff ; “ if onybody that understood the 

beastie daured to get near him ” 

“ I’ll get him,” said John Broom, casting down 
his hat. 

“ Ye’ll get your neck thrawed,” said the farm- 
bailiff. 

“We won’t hear of it,” said the little ladies. 

But to their horror, John Broom kicked off his 
shoes, after which he spat upon his hands (a shock 
which Miss Kitty thought she never could have sur- 
vived) and away he went up the willow. 

It was not an easy tree to climb, and he had one 
or two narrow escapes, which kept the crowd breath- 
less, but he shook the hair from his eyes, moistened 
his hands afresh, and went on. The farm-bailiff’s 
far-away heart was stirred. No Scotchman is in- 
sensible to gallantry. And courage is the only 
thing a “ canny ” Scot can bear to see expended 
without return. 

“John Broom,” screamed Miss Betty, “come 
down ! I order, I command you to come down.” 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIRE. 


311 


The farm-bailiff drew his speckled hat forward to 
shade his upward gaze, and folded his arms. 

“ Dinna call on him, leddies,” he said, speaking 
more quickly than usual. “ Dinna mak him turn his 
head. Steady, lad ! Grip wi’ your feet. Spit on 
your pawms, man.” 

Once the boy trod on a rotten branch, and as he 
drew back his foot, and it came crashing down, the 
farm-bailiff set his teeth, and Miss Kitty fainted in 
Thomasina’s arms. 

“ I’ll reward any one who’ll fetch him down,” 
sobbed Miss Betty. But John Broom seated himself 
on the same branch as the cockatoo, and undid the 
chain and prepared his hands for the downward 
journey. 

“ You’ve got a rare perch, this time,” said he. And 
Pretty Cocky crept toward him, and rubbed its head 
against him and chuckled with joy. 

What dreams of liberty in the tree tops, with 
John Broom for a playfellow, passed through his 
crested head, who shall say ? But when he found 
that his friend meant to take him prisoner, he be- 
came very angry and much alarmed. And when 
John Broom grasped him by both legs and began to 
descend, Cocky pecked him vigorously. But the boy 
held the back of his head toward him, and went 
steadily down. 


m 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIRE. 


“ Weel done ! ” roared the farm-bailiff. “ Gently, 
lad ! Gude save us ! ha’e a care o’ yoursen. That’s 
weel. Keep your pow at him. Dinna let the beast 
get at your een.” 

But when John Broom was so near the ground as 
to be safe, the farm-bailiff turned wrathfully upon 
his son, who had been gazing open-mouthed at the 
sight which had so interested his father. 

“ Ye look weel standing gawping here, before the 
leddies,” said he, “ wasting the precious hours, and 
bringing your father’s gray hairs wi’ sorrow to the 
grave ; and John Broom yonder shaming ye, and 
you not so much as thinking to fetch the perch for 
him, ye lazy loon. Away wi’ ye and get it, before 
I lay a stick about your shoulders.” 

And when his son had gone for the perch, and 
John Broom was safely on the ground, laughing, 
bleeding, and triumphant, the farm-bailiff said : 

“ Ye’re a bauld chiel, John Broom, I’ll say that 
for ye.” 

INTO THE MIST. 

Unfortunately the favorable impression produced 
by “ the gypsy lad’s ” daring soon passed from the 
farm-bailiff’s mind. It was partly effaced by the 
old jealousy of the little ladies’ favor. Miss Betty 
gave the boy no less than four silver shillings, and 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIRE. 


313 


he ungraciously refused to let the farm-bailiff place 
them in a savings bank for him. 

Matters got from bad to worse. The farming 
man was not the only one who was jealous, and 
John Broom himself was as idle and reckless as 
ever. Though, if he had listened respectfully to 
the Scotchman’s counsels, or shown any disposition 
to look up to and be guided by him, much might 
have been overlooked. But he made fun of him 
and made a friend of the cowherd. And this latter 
most manifest token of low breeding vexed the 
respectable taste of the farm-bailiff. 

John Broom had his own grievances too, and he 
brooded over them. He thought the little ladies 
had given him over to the farm-bailiff, because they 
had ceased to care for him, and that the farm-bailiff 
was prejudiced against him beyond any hope of 
propitiation. The village folk taunted him, too, 
with being an outcast, and called him Gypsy John, 
and this maddened him. Then he would creep into 
the cowhouse and lie in the straw against the 
white cow’s warm back, and for a few of Miss 
Betty’s coppers, to spend in beer or tobacco, the 
cowherd would hide him from the farm-bailiff and 
tell him countryside tales. To Thomasina’s stories 
of ghosts and gossip, he would add strange tales of 
smugglers on the near-lying coast, and as John 


314 


LOB L1E-B Y-THE-FIRE. 


Broom listened, his restless blood rebelled more and 
more against the sour sneers and dry drudgery that 
he got from the farm-bailiff. 

Nor were sneers the sharpest punishment his 
misdemeanors earned. The farm-bailiff's stick was 
thick and his arm was strong, and he had a tendency 
to believe that if a flogging was good for a boy, 
the more he had of it the better it would be for 
him. 

And John Broom, who never let a cry escape 
him at the time would steal away afterward and 
sob out his grief into the long soft coat of the 
sympathizing sheep dog. 

Unfortunately he never tried the effect of deserv- 
ing better treatment as a remedy for his woes. 
The parson’s good advice and Miss Betty’s entreaties 
were alike in vain. He was ungrateful even to 
Thomasina. The little ladies sighed and thought of 
the lawyer. And the parson preached patience. 

“ Cocky has been tamed,” said Miss Kitty, 
thoughtfully, “perhaps John Broom will get 
steadier by and by.” 

“ It seems a pity we can’t chain him to a perch, 
Miss Kitty,” laughed the parson ; “ he would be 
safe then, at any rate.” 

Miss Betty said afterward that it did seem so 
remarkable that the parson should have made this 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIRE. 


315 


particular joke on this particular night — the night 
when John Broom did not come home. 

He had played truant all day. The farm-bailiff 
had wanted him, and he had kept out of the way. 

The wind was from the east, and a white mist 
rolled in from the sea, bringing a strange invigorating 
smell, and making your lips clammy with salt. It 
made John Broom’s heart beat faster, and filled his 
head with dreams of ships and smugglers, and rock- 
ing masts higher than the willow tree, and winds 
wilder than this wind, and dancing waves. 

Then something loomed through the fog. It was 
the farm-bailiff’s speckled hat. John Broom hesi- 
tated — the thick stick became visible. 

Then a cloud rolled between them, and the child 
turned, and ran, and ran, and ran, coastward, into 
the sea mist. 

THE SEA— THE ONE-EYED SAILOB— THE 
OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD. 

John Broom was footsore when he reached the 
coast, but that keen, life-giving smell had drawn him 
on and held him up. The fog had cleared off, and 
he strained his black eyes through the darkness to 
see the sea. 

He had never seen it — that other world within 


316 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIRE. 


this, on which one lived oat of doors, and climbed 
about all day, and no one blamed him. 

When he did see it, he thought he had got to the 
end of the world. If the edge of the cliff were not 
the end, he could not make out where the sky 
began ; and if that darkness were the sea, the sea 
was full of stars. 

But this was because the sea was quiet and 
reflected the color of the night sky, and the stars 
were the lights of the herring-boats twinkling in 
the bay. 

When he got down by the water he saw the ves- 
sels lying alongside, and they were dirtier than he 
had supposed. But he did not lose heart, and 
remembering, from the cowherd’s tales, that people 
who cannot pay for their passage must either work 
it out or hide themselves on board ship, he took the 
easier alternative, and got on to the first vessel which 
had a plank to the quay, and hid himself under 
some tarpaulin on the deck. 

The vessel was a collier bound for London, and 
she sailed with the morning tide. 

When he was found out he was not ill-treated. 
Indeed, the rough skipper offered to take him home 
again on his return voyage. He would have liked 
to go, but pride withheld him, and homesickness 
had not yet eaten into his very soul Then an old 


LOB L1E-BY-TH E-FIRE. 


317 


sailor with one eye (but that a sly one) met him, 
and told him tales more wonderful than the cow- 
herd’s. And with him he shipped as cabin-boy, on 
a vessel bound for the other side of the world. 


A great many sins bring their own punishment in 
this life pretty clearly, and sometimes pretty 
closely ; but few more directly or more bitterly 
than rebellion against the duties, and ingratitude 
for the blessings, of. home. 

There was no playing truant on board ship ; and 
as to the master poor John Broom served now, his 
cruelty made the memory of the farm-bailiff a 
memory of tenderness and gentleness and indul- 
gence. Till he was half-naked and half-starved, 
and had only short snatches of sleep in hard cor- 
ners, it had never occurred to him that when one 
has got good food and clothes, and sound sleep in a 
kindly home, he has got more than many people, 
and enough to be thankful for. 

He did everything he was told now as fast as he 
could do it, in fear for his life. The one-eyed 
sailor had told him that the captain always took 
orphans and poor friendless lads to be his cabin- 
boys, and John Broom thought what a nice kind 
man he must be, and how different from the farm- 


318 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIRE. 


bailiff, who thought nobody could be trustworthy 
unless he could show parents and grandparents, 
and cousins to the sixth degree. But after 
they had sailed, when John Broom felt very ill, and 
asked the one-eyed sailor where he was to sleep, the 
one-eyed sailor pleasantly replied that if he hadn’t 
brought a four-post bed in his pocket he must sleep 
where he could, for that all the other cabin-boys 
were sleeping in Davy’s Locker, and couldn’t be 
disturbed. And it was not till John Broom had 
learned ship’s language that he found out that Davy’s 
Locker meant the deep, and that the other cabin- 
boys were dead. “ And as they’d nobody belong- 
ing to em, no hearts was broke,” added the sailor, 
winking with his one eye. 

John Broom slept standing sometimes for weari- 
ness, but he did not sleep in Davy’s Locker. Young 
as he was he had dauntless courage, a careless hope- 
ful heart, and a tough little body ; and that strong, 
life-giving sea smell bore him up instead of food, and 
he got to the other side of the world. 

Why he did not stay there, why he did not run 
away into the wilderness to find at least some easier 
death than to have his bones broken by the cruel 
captain, he often wondered afterward. He was so 
much quicker and braver than the boys they com- 
monly got, that the old sailor kept a sharp watch 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIllE. 


319 

over him with his one eye while they were ashore ; 
but one day he was too drunk to see out of it, and 
John Broom ran away. 

It was Christmas day, and so hot that he could 
not run far, for it was at the other side of the world, 
where things are upside down, and he sat down by 
the roadside on the outskirts of the city ; and as he 
sat, with his thin, brown face resting on his hands, a 
familiar voice beside him said, “ Pretty Cocky ! ” 
and looking up he saw a man with several cages of 
birds. The speaker was a cockatoo of the most 
exquisite shades of cream-color, salmon, and rose, and 
he had a rose-colored crest. But lovely as he was, 
John Broom’s eyes were on another cage, where, 
silent, solemn and sulky, sat a big white one with 
sulphur-colored trimmings and fierce black eyes; 
and he was so like Miss Betty’s pet, that the poor 
child’s heart bounded as if a hand had been held out 
to him from home. 

“ If you let him get at you, you’ll not do it a second 
time, mate,” said the man. “ He’s the nastiest- 
tempered beast I ever saw. I’d have wrung his 
neck long ago if he hadn’t such a fine coat.” 

But John Broom said as he had said before, “ I 
like him, and he’ll like me.” 

When the cockatoo bit his finger to the bone, the 
man roared with laughter, but John Broom did not 


320 


LOB LIE-BY-TH E-FIRE. 


draw his hand away. He kept it still at the bird’s 
beak, and with the other he gently scratched him 
under the crest and wings. And when the white 
cockatoo began to stretch out his eight long toes, as 
cats clutch with their claws from pleasure, and 
chuckled, and sighed, and bit softly without hurt- 
ing, and laid his head against the bars till his snow 
and sulphur feathers touched John Broom’s black 
locks, the man was amazed. 

“ Look here, mate,” said he, “you’ve the trick with 
birds, and no mistake. I’ll sell you this one cheap, 
and you’ll be able to sell him dear.” 

“I’ve not a penny in the world,” said John 
Broom. 

“You do look cleaned out, too,” said the man 
scanning him from head to foot. “ I tell you what, 
you shall come with me a bit and tame the birds, 
and I’ll find you something to eat.” 

Ten minutes before, John Broom would have 
jumped at this offer, though he now refused it. The 
sight of the cockatoo had brought back the fever of 
home sickness in all its fierceness. He couldn’t stay 
out here. He would dare anything, do anything, to 
see the hills about Lingborough once more before 
he died ; and even if he did not live to see them, he 
might live to sleep in that part of Davy’s Locker 
which should rock him on the shores of home. 


LOB LIE-BY-TEE-FIRE. 


321 


The man gave him a shilling for fastening a ring 
and chain on to the cocky’s ankle, and with this he 
got the best dinner he had eaten since he lost sight 
of the farm-bailiff’s speckled hat in the mist. 

And then he went back to the one-eyed sailor, and 
shipped as cabin-boy again for the homeward 
voyage. 

THE HIGHLANDER — BARRACK LIFE— 

THE GREAT CURSE— JOHN BROOM’S 
MONEY-BOX. 

When John Broom did get home he did not go to 
sea again. He lived from hand to mouth in the sea- 
port town, and slept, as he was well accustomed to 
sleep, in holes and corners. 

Every day and every night, through the long 
months of the voyage, he had dreamed of begging 
his way barefoot to Miss Betty’s door. But now 
he did not go. His life was hard, but it w r as not 
cruel. He was very idle, and there w r as plenty to 
see. He wandered about the country as of old. 
The ships and shipping too had a fascination for 
him now that the past was past, and here he could 
watch them from the shore ; and, partly for shame 
and partly for pride, he could not face the idea of 
going back. If he had been taunted with being a 
vagrant boy before, what would be said now if he 


322 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIRE. 


presented himself, a true tramp, to the farm-bailiff \ 
Besides Miss Betty and Miss Kitty could not forgive 
him. It was impossible ! 

He was wandering about one day when he came 
to some fine high walls with buildings inside. There 
was an open gateway, at which stood a soldier with 
a musket. But a woman and some children went 
in, and he did not shoot them ; so when his back was 
turned, and he was walking stiffly to where he came 
from, John Broom ran in through the gateway! 

The first man he saw was the grandest-looking 
man he had ever seen. Indeed, he looked more like 
a bird than a man, a big bird with a big black crest. 
He was very tall. His feet were broad and white, 
like the feathered feet of some plumy bird ; his legs 
were bare and brown and hairy. He was clothed in 
many colors. He had fur in front, which swung as 
he walked, and silver and shining stones about him. 
He held his head very high, and from it drooped 
great black plumes. His face looked as if it had 
been cut — roughly but artistically — out of a block 
of old wood, and his eyes were the color of a sum- 
mer sky. And John Broom felt as he had felt when 
he first saw Miss Betty’s cockatoo. 

In repose the Highlander’s eye was as clear as a 
cairngorm and as cold, but when it fell upon John 
Broom it took a twinkle not quite unlike the twinkle 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIRE. 


323 


in the one eye of the sailor ; and then, to his amaze- 
ment, this grand creature beckoned to John Broom 
with a rather dirty hand. 

“Yes, sir,” said John Broom, staring up at the 
splendid giant, with eyes of wonder. 

“ I’m saying,” said the Highlander, confidentially 
(and it had a pleasant homely sound to hear him 
speak like the farm-bailiff) — “ I’m saying, I’m con- 
fined to barracks, ye ken ; and I’ll gi’e ye a haw- 
penny if ye’ll get the bottle filled wi’ whusky. 
Roun’ yon corner ye’ll see the ‘Britain’s De- 
fenders.’ ” 

But at this moment he erected himself, his tor- 
que 1 ' se eyes looked straight before them, and he put 
his hand to his head and moved it slowly away 
again, as a young man with more swinging gran- 
deur of colors and fur and plumes, and with greater 
glittering of gems and silver, passed by, a sword 
clattering after him. 

Meanwhile John Broom had been round the 
corner and was back again. 

“ What for are ye standin’ there ye fule ? ” asked 
his new friend. “ What for didna ye gang for the 
whusky ?” 

“ It’s here, sir.” 

“ My certy, ye dinna let the grass grow under 
your feet,” said the Highlander ; and he added, 


324 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIBE. 


“ if ye want to run errands, laddie, ye can come 
back again.” 

It was the beginning of a fresh life for John 
Broom. With many other idle or homeless boys he 
now haunted the barracks, and ran errands for the 
soldiers. His fleetness of foot and ready wit made 
him the favorite. Perhaps, too, his youth and his 
bright face and eyes pleaded for him, for British 
soldiers are a tender-hearted race. 

He was knocked about, but never cruelly, and he 
got plenty of coppers and broken victuals, and now 
and then an old cap or a pair of boots, a world too 
large for him. His principal errands were to fetch 
liquor for the soldiers. In arms and pockets he 
would sometimes carry a dozen bottles at once, and 
fly back from the canteen or public-house without 
breaking one. 

Before the summer was over he was familiar with 
every barrack-room and guard-room in the place ; 
he had food to eat and coppers to spare, and he 
shared his bits with the mongrel dogs, who lived, as 
he did, on the good nature of the garrison. 

It must be confessed that neatness was not 
among John Broom’s virtues. He looped his rags 
together with bits of string, and wasted his pence 
or lost them. The soldiers standing at the bar 
would often give him a drink out of their pewter- 


LOB LIE-B T-TEE-FIRE. 


325 


pots. It choked him at first, and then he got used 
to it, and liked it. Some relics of Miss Betty’s 
teaching kept him honest. He would not conde- 
scend to sip by the way out of the soldiers’ jugs and 
bottles as other errand boys did, but he came to 
feel rather proud of laying his twopence on the 
counter, and emptying his own pot of beer with a 
grimace to the bystanders through the glass at the 
bottom. 

One day he was winking through the froth of a 
pint of porter at the canteen sergeant’s daughter, 
who was in fits of laughing, when the pewter was 
knocked out of his grasp and the big High- 
lander’s hand was laid on his shoulder and bore him 
twenty or thirty yards from the place in one 
swoop. 

“ I’ll trouble ye to give me your attention,” said 
the Highlander, when they came to a standstill, 
“ and to speak the truth. Did ye ever see me the 
worse of liquor ? ” 

John Broom had several remembrances of the 
clearest kind to that effect, so he put up his arms to 
shield his head from the probable blow, and said, 
“Yes, McAlister.” 

“ How often ? ” asked the Scotchman. 

“ I never counted,” said John Broom; “pretty 
often.” 


326 


LOB LIE-B T-THE-FIRE. 


“ How many good-conduct stripes do ye ken me 
to have lost of your ain knowledge ? ” 

“ Three, McAlister.” 

“ Is there a finer man than me in the regiment ? ” 
asked the Highlander, drawing up his head. 

“That there’s not,” said John Broom, 
warmly. 

“ Our sairgent, now,” drawled the Scotchman, 
“ wad ye say he was a better man than me ? ” 

“Nothing like so good,” said John Broom, 
sincerely. 

“ And what d’ ye suppose, man,” said the High- 
lander, firing with sudden passion, till the light of 
his clear blue eyes seemed to pierce John Broom’s 
very soul — “ what d’ye suppose has hindered me 
that I’m not sairgent, when yon man is ? What has 
keepit me from being an officer, that has served my 
country in twa battles when oor quartermaster 
hadn’t enlisted ? Wha gets my money ? What lost 
me my stripes ? What loses me decent folks’ re- 
spect, and waur than that, my ain ? What gars a 
hand that can grip a broadsword tremble like a 
woman’s ? What fills the canteen and the kirkyard ? 
What robs a man of health and wealth and peace ? 
What ruins weans and women, and makes mair 
homes desolate than war? Drink, man, drink! 
The deevil of drink ! ” 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIRE. 


32 ? 


It was not till the glare in his eyes had paled that 
John Broom ventured to speak. Then he said : 

“ Why don’t ye give it up, McAlister ? ” 

The man rose to his full height, and laid his 
hand heavily on the boy’s shoulder, and his eyes 
seemed to fade with that pitiful, weary look, which 
only such blue eyes show so well. “ Because I canna,” 
said he ; “ because, for as big as I am, I canna. But 
for as little as you are, laddie, ye can, and, Heaven 
help me, ye shall.” 

That evening he called John Broom into the bar- 
rack-room where he slept. He was sitting on the 
edge of his bed, and had a little wooden money-box 
in his hands. 

“ What money have ye, laddie ? ” he asked. 

John Broom pulled out three halfpence lately 
earned, and the Scotchman dropped them slowly 
into the box. Then he turned the key, and put it 
into his pocket, and gave the box to the boy. 

“Ye’ll put what you earn in there,” said he, “I’ll 
keep the key, and ye’ll keep the box yoursel ; and 
when it’s opened we’ll open it together, and lay out 
your savings in decent clothes for ye against the 
winter.” 

At this moment some men passing to the canteen 
shouted, “ McAlister ! ” The Highlander did not 
answer, but he started to the door. Then he 


328 


LOB LIE-BY-THE-FIHE. 


stood irresolute, and then turned and reseated 
himself. 

“ Gang and bring me a bit o’ tobacco,” he said, 
giving John Broom a penny. And when the boy 
had gone he emptied his pocket of the few pence 
left, and dropped them into the box, muttering, “ If 
he manna, I wunna.” 

And when the tobacco came, he lit his pipe, and 
sat on the bench outside, and snarled at every one 
who spoke to him. 

OUTPOST DUTY-THE SERGEANT’S 
STOBY — GRAND ROUNDS. 

It was a bitterly cold winter. The soldiers drank 
a great deal, and John Broom was constantly trot- 
ting up and down, and the box grew very heavy. 

Bottles were filled and refilled, in spite of greatly 
increased strictness in the discipline of the garrison, 
for there were rumors of invasion, and penalties 
were heavy, and sentry posts were increased, and 
the regiments were kept in readiness for action. 

The Highlander had not cured himself of drink- 
ing, though he had cured John Broom. But, like 
others he was more wary just now, and had hitherto 
escaped the heavy punishments inflicted in a time of 
probable war ; and John Broom watched over him 
with the fidelity of a sheep dog, and more than 


LOB LIE-B T-THE-FIRE. 


329 


once had roused him with a can of cold water when 
he was all but caught by his superiors in a state of 
stupor which would not have been credited to the 
frost alone. 

The talk of invasion had become grave, when 
one day a body of men w r ere ordered for outpost 
duty, and McAlister was among them. The officer 
had got a room for them in a farmhouse, where 
they sat round the fire, and went out by turns to 
act as sentries at various posts for an hour or two 
at a time. 

The novelty was delightful to John Broom. He 
hung about the farmhouse, and warmed himself at 
the soldiers’ fire. 

In the course of the day McAlister got him apart, 
and whispered, “ I’m going on duty the night at 
ten, laddie. It’s fearsome cold, and I hav’na had a 
drop to warm me the day. If ye could ha’ brought 
me a wee drappie to the corner of the three roads — 
its twa miles from here I’m thinking ” 

“ It’s not the miles, McAlister,” said John Broom, 
“ but you’re on outpost duty, and ” 

“ And you’re misdoubting what may be done to 
ye for bringing liquor to a sentry on duty ! Ay, 
ay, lad, ye do weel to be cautious,” said the High- 
lander, and he turned away. 

But it was not the fear of consequences to him- 


330 


LOB LIE-BY-TEE-FIRE. 


self which had made John Broom hesitate, and he 
was stnng by the implication. 

The night was dark and very cold, and the High- 
lander had been pacing up and down his post for 
about half an hour, w T hen his quick ear caught a 
faint sound of footsteps. 

“ Wha goes there ? ” said he. 

“ It’s I, McAlister,” whispered John Broom. 

“ Whisht, laddie,” said the sentry ; “ are ye there 



after all ? Did no one see ye ? ” 


“Hot a soul; I crept by the hedges. Here’s 
your whisky, McAlister ; but, oh, be careful ! ” said 


the lad. 

The Scotchman’s eyes glistened greedily at the 
bottle. 

“ Hever fear,” said he, “ I’ll just rub a wee 
drappie on the pawms of my hands to keep away 
the frost-bite, for it’s awsome cold, man. How 
away wi’ ye, and take tent, laddie, keep off the 
other sentries.” 

John Broom went back as carefully as he had 
come, and slipped in to warm himself by the guard- 
room fire. 

It was a good one, and the soldiers sat close 
round it. The officer was writing a letter in 
another room, and in a low, impressive voice, the 
sergeant was telling a story which was listened to 


LOB LIE-BY-TEE-FIRE. 


331 


with breathless attention. John Broom was fond 
of stories, and he listened also. 

It was of a friend of the sergeant’s, who had been 
a boy with him in the same village at home, who 
had seen active service with him abroad, and who 
had slept at his post on such a night as this, from 
the joint effects of cold and drink. It was war 
time, and he had been tried by court-martial, and 
shot for the offense. The sergeant had been one of 
the firing party to execute his friend, and they had 
taken leave of each other as brothers, before the 
final parting face to face in this last awful scene. 

The man’s voice was faltering, when the tale was 
cut short by the jingling of the field officer’s 
accouterments as he rode by to visit the outposts. 
In an instant the officer and men turned out to 
receive him ; and, after the usual formalities, he 
rode on. The officer went back to his letter, and 
the sergeant and his men to their fireside. 

The opening of the doors had let in a fresh 
volume of cold, and one of the men called to John 
Broom to mend the fire. But he was gone. 

John Broom was fleet of foot, and there are 
certain moments which lift men be} T ond their 
natural powers, but he had set himself a hard 
task. 

As he listened to the sergeant’s tale, an agonizing 


332 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIRE. 


fear smote him for his friend McAlister. Was 
there any hope that the Highlander could keep 
himself from the whisky ? Officers were making 
their rounds at very short intervals just now, and if 
drink and cold overcame him at his post ! 

Close upon these thoughts came the jingling of the 
field officer’s sword, and the turn out of the guard. 
“ Who goes there ? ” — “ Bounds.” — “ What rounds ? ” 
— “ Grand rounds.” — “ Halt, grand rounds, advance 
one, and gave the countersign ! ” The familiar 
words struck coldly on John Broom’s heart, as if 
they had been orders to a firing party, and the 
bandage were already across the Highlander’s blue 
eyes. Would the grand rounds be challenged at 
the three roads to-night ? He darted out into the 
snow. 

He flew, as the crow flies, across the fields, to 
where McAlister was on duty. It was a much 
shorter distance than by the road, which was wind- 
ing ; but whether this would balance the difference 
between a horse’s pace and his own was the ques- 
tion, and there being no time to question, he 
ran on. 

He kept his black head down, and ran from his 
shoulders. The clatter, clatter, jingle, jingle, on the 
hard road came to him through the still frost on a 
level with his left ear. It was terrible, but he held 


LOB LIE-BY-TEE-FIRE. 


333 


on, dodging under the hedges to be out of sight, 
and the sound lessened, and by and by, the road 
having wound about, he could hear it faintly, but 
behind him. 

And he reached the three roads, and McAlister 
was asleep in the ditch. 

But when, with jingle and clatter, the field officer 
of the day reached the spot, the giant Highlander 
stood like a watch-tower at his post, with a little 
snow on the black plumes that drooped upon his 
shoulders. 


HOSPITAL— “ HAME.” 

John Broom did not see the Highlander again for 
two or three days. It was Christmas week, and, in 
spite of the war panic, there was festivity enough 
in the barracks to keep the errand-boy very busy. 

Then came Hew Year’s Eve — 44 Hogmenay,” as 
the Scotch call it — and it was the Highland regi- 
ment’s particular festival. Worn out with whisky- 
fetching and with helping to deck barrack-rooms 
and carrying pots and trestles, John Broom was 
having a nap in the evening, in company with a 
mongrel deerhound, when a man shook him, and 
said, 4 4 1 heard some one asking for ye an hour or 
two back ; McAlister wants ye.” 

44 Where is he ? ” said John Broom, jumping to his 
feet. 


334 


LOB L1E-B Y-THE-FIRE 


“ In hospital ; he’s been there a day or two. He 
got cold on outpost duty, and it’s flown to his lungs, 
they say. Ye see he’s been a hard drinker, has 
McAlister, and I expect he’s breaking up.” 

With which very just conclusion the speaker 
went on into the canteen, and John Broom ran to 
the hospital. 

Stripped of his picturesque trappings, and with 
no plumes to shadow the hollows in his temples, 
McAlister looked gaunt and feeble enough, as he 
lay in the little hospital bed, which barely held his 
long limbs. Such a wreck of giant powers of body, 
and noble qualities of mind as the drink shops are 
preparing for the hospitals every day ! 

Since the quickly-reached medical decision that he 
was in a rapid decline, and that nothing could be 
done for him, McAlister had been left a good deal 
alone. His intellect (and it was no fool’s intellect) 
was quite clear, and if the long hours by himself, in 
which he reckoned with his own soul, had hastened 
the death-damps on his brow, they had also written 
there an expression which was new to John Broom. 
It was not the old sour look, it was a kind of noble 
gravity. 

His light-blue eyes brightened as the boy came in, 
and he held out his hand, and John Broom took it 
with both his, saying : 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIRfi. 


335 


“ I never heard till this minute, McAlister. Eh, I 
do hope you’ll be better soon.” 

“ The Lord being merciful to me,” said the High- 
lander. “ But this world’s nearly past, laddie, and 
I was fain to see ye again. Dinna greet, man, for 
I’ve important business wi’ ye, and I should wish 
your attention. Firstly, I’m aboot to hand ower to 
ye the key of your box- Tak’ it, and. put it in a 
pocket that’s no got a hole in it, if you’re worth one. 
Secondly, there’s a bit bag I made mysel’, and it’s 
got a trifle o’ money in it that I’m giving and be- 
queathing to ye, under certain conditions, namely, 
that ye shall spend the contents of the box accord- 
ing to my last wishes and instructions, with the ulti- 
mate end of your ain benefit, ye’ll understand.” 

A fit of coughing here broke McAlister’s discourse ; 
but, after drinking from a cup beside him, he put 
aside John Broom’s remonstrances with a dignified 
movement of his hand, and continued : 

“ When a body comes of decent folk, he won’t 
just care, maybe, to have their names brought up in 
a barrack-room. Ye never heard me say aught of 
my father or my mither ? ” 

“ Never, McAlister.” 

“ I’d a good hame,” said the Highlander, with a 
decent pride in his tone. “ It was a strict hame — 
I’ve no cause now to deceive mysel’, and I’m think- 


336 


LOB LIE-B T-THE-FIRE. 


ing it was a wee bit ower strict — but it was a good 
hame. I left it, man — I ran away.” 

The glittering blue eyes turned sharply on the 
lad, and he went on : 

“ A body doesna’ care to turn his byganes oot 
for every fool to peck at. Did I ever speer about 
your past life, and whar ye came from ? ” 

“ Never, McAlister.” 

“ But that’s no to say that, if I knew manners, I 
dinna obsairve. And there’s been things now and 
again, John Broom, that’s gar’d me think that ye’ve 
had what I had, and done as I did. Did ye rin awa’, 
laddie?” 

John Broom nodded his black head, but tears 
choked his voice. 

“ Man ! ” said the Highlander, “ ane word’s as 
gude’s a thousand. Gang back ! Gang hame ! 
There’s the bit siller here that’s to tak’ ye, and the 
love yonder that’s waiting ye. Listen to a dying 
man, laddie, and gang hame ! ” 

“ I doubt if they’d have me,” sobbed John Broom; 
“ I gave ’em a deal of trouble, McAlister.” 

“ And d’ye think, lad, that that thought has na’ 
cursed me, and keepit me from them that loved 
me? Ay, lad, and till this week I never over- 
came it.” 

“ Weel may I want to save ye, bairn,” added the 


LOB LI E-B Y-TH E-FIRE. 


33 7 


Highlander tenderly, “ for it was the thocht of a’ ye 
riskit for the like of me at the three roads, that 
made me consider wi’ mysel’ that I’ve aiblins been 
turning my back a’ my vvillfu’ life on love that’s 
bigger than a man’s deservings. It’s near done 
now, and it’ll never lie in my poor power so much as 
rightly to thank ye. It’s strange that a man should 
set store by a good name that he doesna’ deserve ; 
but if only blessings of mine could bring ye good, 
they’re yours, that saved an old soldier’s honor, and 
let him die respected in his regiment.” 

“ Oh, McAlister, let me fetch one of the chaplains 
to write a letter to fetch your father,” cried John 
Broom. 

“ The minister’s been here this morning,” said the 
Highlander, “and I’ve tell’t him mair than I’ve tell’t 
you. And he’s jest directed me to put my sinful 
trust in the Father of us a’. I’ve sinned heaviest 
against Him , laddie, but His love is stronger than 
the lave.” 

John Broom remained by his friend, whose pain- 
ful fits of coughing and of gasping for breath, were 
varied by intervals of seeming stupor. When a 
candle had been brought in and placed near the bed, 
the Highlander roused himself and asked : 

“ Is there a Bible on yon table \ Could ye read a 
bit to me, laddie ? ” 


338 


LOB LIE-B T-THE-FIRE. 


There is little need to dwell on the bitterness of 
heart with which John Broom confessed : 

“ I can’t read big words, McAlister.” 

“ Did ye never go to school ? ” said the Scotchman. 

“ I didn’t learn,” said the poor boy ; “ I played.” 

“Ay, ay. Weel, ye’ll learn, when ye gang 
hame,” said the Highlander, in gentle tones. 

“ I’ll never get home,” said John Broom, passion- 
ately. “ I’ll never forgive myself. I’ll never get 
over it, that I couldn’t read to ye when ye wanted 
me, McAlister.” 

“ Gently, gently,” said the Scotchman. “ Dinna 
daunt yoursel’ owermuch wi’ the past, laddie. And 
for me — I’m not that presoomptious to think that I 
can square up a misspent life as a man might com- 
pound wi’s creditors. ’Gin He forgi’es me, He’ll 
forgi’e ; but it’s not a prayer up or a chapter down 
that’ll stan’ between me and the Almighty. So 
dinna fret yoursel’, but let me think while I may.” 

And so, far into the night, the Highlander lay 
silent, and John Broom watched by him. 

It was just midnight when he partly raised him- 
self, and cried : 

“ Whist, laddie ! do ye hear the pipes ? ” 

The dying ears must have been quick, for John 
Broom heard nothing ; but in a few moments he 
heard the bagpipes from the officers’ mess, where 


LOB LIE-B 7- THE- FIRE. 


339 


they were keeping Hogmenay. They were playing 
the old year out with “ Auld lang syne,” and the 
Highlander beat the tune out with his hand, and his 
eyes gleamed out of his rugged face in the dim 
light, as cairngorms glitter in dark tartan. 

There was a pause after the first verse, and he 
grew restless, and turning doubtfully to where 
John Broom sat, as if his sight were failing, he said, 
“ Ye’ll mind your promise, ye’ll gang hame ? ” And 
after awhile he repeated the last word. 

“ Hame ! ” 

But as he spoke there spread over his face a smile 
so tender and so full of happiness, that John Broom 
held his breath as he watched him. As the light of 
sunrise creeps over the face of some rugged rock, it 
crept from chin to brow, and the pale blue eyes 
shone tranquil, like water that reflects heaven. 

And when it had passed it left them still open, 
but gems that had lost their ray. 

LUCK GOES— AND COMES AGAIN. 

The spirit does not always falter in its faith 
because the flesh is weary with hope deferred. 
When week after week, month after month, and year 
after year, went by and John Broom was not found 
the disappointment seemed to “ age ” the little ladies, 
as Thomasina phrased it. But yet they said to the 
parson, “ We do not regret it.” 


340 


LOB LIE-BY-TEE-FIRE. 


“ God forbid that you should regret it, ” said he. 

And even the lawyer (whose heart was kinder 
than his tongue) abstained from taunting them with 
his prophecies, and said, “ The force of the habits 
of early education is a power as well as that of in- 
herent tendencies. It is only for your sake that I 
regret a too romantic benevolence. ” And Miss 
Betty and Miss Kitty tried to put the matter quite 
away. But John Broom was very closely bound up 
with the life of many years past. Thomasina 
mourned him as if he had been her son, and Thom- 
asina being an old and valuable servant, it is need- 
less to say that when she was miserable no one in 
the house was permitted to be quite at ease. 

As to Pretty Cocky, he lived, but Miss Kitty 
fancied that he grew less pretty and drooped upon 
his polished perch. 

There were times when the parson felt almost 
conscience-stricken because he had encouraged the 
adoption of John Broom. Disappointment fall 
heavily on elderly people. They may submit better 
than the young, but they do not so easily revive. 
The little old ladies looked grayer and more nervous, 
and the little old house looked grayer and gloomier 
than of old. 

Indeed there were other causes of anxiety. Times 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIRE. 


341 


were changing prices were rising, and the farm did 
not thrive. The lawyers said that the farm-bailiff 
neglected his duties, and that the cowherd did 
nothing but drink ; but Miss Betty trembled, and 
said they could not part with old servants. 

The farm-bailiff had his own trouble, but he kept 
it to himself. No one knew how severely he had 
beaten John Broom the day before he ran away, but 
he remembered it himself with painful clearness. 
Harsh men are apt to have consciences, and his was 
far from easy about the lad who had been intrusted 
to his care. He could not help thinking of it when 
the day’s work was over, and he had to keep filling 
up his evening whisky glass again and again to 
drown disagreeable thoughts. 

The whisky answered this purpose, but it made 
him late in the morning; it complicated business on 
market days, not to the benefit of the farm and it 
put him at a disadvantage in dealing with the 
drunken cowherd. 

The cowherd was completely upset by John 
Broom’s mysterious disappearance, and he comforted 
himself as the farm-bailiff did, but to a larger extent. 
And Thomasina winked at many irregularities in 
consideration of the groans of sympathy with which 
he responded to her tears as they sat round the 
hearth where John Broom no longer lay. 


342 


LOB LIE-B T-TBE-FIRR 


At the time that he vanished from Lingborough 
the gossips of the country side said, “ This comes of 
making pets of tramps’ brats, when honest folk’s 
sons may toil and moil without notice. ” But when 
it was proved that the tramp-boy had stolen nothing, 
when all search for him was vain, and when pros- 
perity faded from the place season by season and 
year by year, there were old folk who whispered 
that the gaudily -clothed child Miss Betty had found 
under the broom-bush had something more than 
common in him, and that whoever and whatever 
had offended the eerie creature, he had taken the 
luck of Lingborough with him when he went away. 

It was early summer. The broom was shining in 
the hedges with uncommon wealth of golden blos- 
soms. “ The lanes look for all the world as they 
did the year that poor child was found, ” said Thom- 
asina, wiping her eyes. Annie the lass sobbed hys- 
terically, and the cowherd found himself so low in 
spirits that after gazing dismally at the cow-stalls, 
which had not been cleaned for days past, he betook 
himself to the ale-house to refresh his energies for 
this and other arrears of work. 

On returning to the farm, however, he found his 
hands still feeble, and he took a drop or two more 
to steady them ; after which it occurred to him that 
certain new potatoes which he had had orders to dig 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIRE. 


343 


were yet in the ground. The wood was not chopped 
for the next day’s use, and he wondered what had 
become of a fork he had had in the morning and had 
laid down somewhere. 

So he seated himself on some straw in the corner 
to think about it all, and while he was thinking he 
fell fast asleep. 

By his own account many remarkable things had 
befallen him in the course of his life, including that 
meeting with a black something to which allusion 
has been made, but nothing so strange as what hap- 
pened to him that night. 

When he awoke in the morning and sat up on the 
straw ; and looked around him, the stable was 
freshly cleaned, the litter in the stalls was shaken 
and turned, and near the door was an old barrel of 
newly-dug potatoes, and the fork stood by it. And 
when he ran to the wood-house there lay the wood 
neatly chopped and piled to take away. 

He kept his own council that day and took credit 
for the work, but when on the morrow the farm- 
bailiff was at a loss to know who had thinned the 
turnips that were left to do in the upper field, and 
Annie the lass found the kitchen-cloths she had left 
overnight to soak, rubbed through and rinsed, and 
laid to dry, the cowherd told his tale to Thomasina, 
and begged for a bowl of porridge and cream to set 


344 


LOB LIE-B Y- TH E-FIRE. 


in the barn, as one might set a mouse-trap baited 
with cheese: 

“ For, ” said he, “ the luck of Lingborough’s come 
back, missis. Itfs Lob Lie-by-the-fire! ” 

LOB LIE-BY-THE-FIRE. 

“ IBs Lob Lie-by-the-fire! ” 

So Thomasina whispered exultingly, and Annie 
the lass timidly. Thomasina cautioned the cowherd 
to hold his tongue, and she said nothing to the little 
ladies on the subject. She felt certain that they 
would tell the parson, and he might not approve. 
The farm-bailiff knew of a farm on the Scotch side 
of the border where a brownie had been driven away 
by the minister preaching his last Sunday’s sermon 
over again at him, and as Thomasina said, “ There’d 
been little enough luck at Lingborough lately, that 
they should wish to scare it away when it came. ” 

And yet the news leaked out gently, and was 
soon known all through the neighborhood — as a 
secret. 

“ The luck of Lingborough’s come back. Lob’s 
lying by the fire! ” 

He could be heard at his work any night, and 
several people had seen him, though this vexed 
Thomasina, who knew well that the good people do 
not like to be watched at their labors. 


LOB LIE-B Y-TH E-FIRE. 


345 


The cowherd had not been able to resist peeping 
down through chinks in the floor of the loft above 
the barn, where he slept, and one night he had seen 
Lob fetching straw for the cowhouse. “ A great 
rough, black fellow,” said he, and he certainly grew 
bigger and rougher and blacker every time the 
cowherd told the tale. 

The Lubber-fiend appeared next to a boy who 
was loitering at a late hour somewhere near the 
little ladies’ kitchen-garden, and whom he pursued 
and pelted with mud till the lad nearly lost his wits 
with terror. (It was the same boy who was put in 
the lock-up in the autumn for stealing Farmer 
Mangel’s Siberian crabs.) 

For this trick, however, the rough elf atoned by 
leaving three pecks of newly-gathered fruit in the 
kitchen the following morning. Never had there 
been such a preserving season at Lingborough 
within the memory of Thomasina. 

The truth is, hobgoblins, from Fuck to Will-o’- 
the-wisp, are apt to play practical jokes and knock 
people about whom they meet after sunset. A 
dozen tales of such were rife, and folk were more 
amused than amazed by Lob Lie-by-the-fire’s next 
prank. 

There was an aged pauper who lived on the charity 
of the little ladies, and whom it was Miss Betty’s 


346 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIRE. 


practice to employ to do light weeding in the fields 
for heavy wages. This venerable person was tod- 
dling to his home in the gloaming with a barrow- 
load of Miss Betty’s new potatoes, dexterously 
hidden by an upper sprinkling of groundsel and 
hemlock, when the Lubber-fiend sprang out from 
behind an elder-bush, ran at the old man with his 
black head, and knocked him, heels uppermost into 
the ditch. The wheelbarrow was afterward found 
in Miss Betty’s farmyard, quite empty. 

And when the cowherd (who had his own opinion 
of the aged pauper, and it was a very poor one) 
went that evening to drink Lob Lie-by-th e-fire’s 
health from a bottle he kept in the harness-room 
window, he was nearly choked with the contents, 
which had turned into salt and water, as fairy 
jewels turn to withered leaves. 

But luck had come to Lingborough. There had 
not been such crops for twice seven years past. 

The lay-away hen’s eggs were brought regularly 
to the kitchen. 

The ducklings were not eaten by rats. 

No fowls were stolen. 

The tub of pig-meal lasted three times as long as 
usual. 

The cart-wheels and gate-hinges were oiled by 
unseen fingers. 


LOB LIE-BY-THE-F1RE. 


347 


The mushrooms in the croft gathered themselves 
and lay down on a dish in the larder. 

It is by small savings that a farm thrives, and 
Miss Betty’s farm throve. 

Everybody worked with more alacrity. Annie 
the lass said the butter came in a way that made it 
a pleasure to churn. 

The neighbors knew even more than those on the 
spot. They said — that since Lob came back to Ling- 
borough the hens laid eggs as large as turkeys’ eggs, 
and the turkeys’ eggs were — oh, you wouldn’t 
believe the size ! 

That the cows gave nothing but cream, and that 
Thomasina skimmed butter off it as less lucky folk 
skim cream from milk. 

That her cheeses were as rich as butter. 

That she sold all she made, for Lob took the fairy 
butter from the old trees in the avenue, and made 
it up into pats for Miss Betty’s table. 

That if you bought Lingborough turnips, you 
might feed your cows on them all the winter and 
the milk would be as sweet as new-mown hay. 

That horses foddered on Lingborough hay would 
have thrice the strength of others, and that sheep 
who cropped Lingborough pastures would grow 
three times as fat. 

That for as good a watch-dog as it was the sheep 


348 


LOB LIE-B 7- TH E-FIJl E. 


dog never barked at Lob, a plain proof that he was 
more than human. 

That for all its good luck it was not safe to loiter 
near the place after dark, if you wished to keep 
your senses. And if you took so much as a fallen 
apple belonging to Miss Betty, you might look out 
for palsy or St. Vitus’ dance, or to be carried off 
bodily to the underground folk. 

Finally, that it was well that all the cows gave 
double, for that Lob Lie-by-the-fire drank two 
gallons of the best cream every day, with curds, 
porridge, and other dainties to match. But what 
did that matter, when he had been overheard to 
swear that luck should not leave Lingborough till 
Miss Betty owned half the country side ? 

MISS BETTY IS SUKPKISED. 

Miss Betty and Miss Kitty having accepted a 
polite invitation from Mrs. General Dunmaw, went 
down to tea with that lady one fine evening in this 
eventful summer. 

Death had made a gap or two in the familiar 
circle during the last fourteen years, but otherwise 
it was quite the same except that the lawyer was 
married and not quite so sarcastic, and that Mrs. 
Brown Jasey had brought a young niece with her 
dressed in the latest fashion, which looked quite as 


LOB LIE-B T-THE-FIRE. 


349 


odd as new fashions are wont to do, and with a 
coiffure “enough to frighten the French away,” as 
her aunt told her. 

It was while this young lady was getting more 
noise out of Mrs. Dunmaw’s red silk and rosewood 
piano than had been shaken out of it during the 
last thirty years, that the lawyer brought his cup 
of coffee to Miss Betty’s side, and said, suavely, 
“ I hear wonderful accounts of Lingborough, dear 
Miss Betty.” 

“ I am thankful to say, sir, that the farm is doing 
well this year. I am very thankful, for the past 
few years have been unfavorable, and we had 
begun to face the fact that it might be necessary to 
sell the old place. And, I will not deny, sir, that it 
would have gone far to break my heart, to say 
nothing of my sister Kitty’s.” 

“ Oh, we shouldn’t have let it come to that,” said 
the lawyer, “ I could have raised a loan ” 

“ Sir,” said Miss Betty with dignity, “ if we have 
our own pride, I hope it’s an honest one. Ling- 
borough will have passed out of our family when it’s 
kept up on borrowed money.” 

“ I could live in lodgings,” added Miss Betty, 
firmly, “ little as I’ve been accustomed to it, but not 
in debt” 

“Well, well, my dear madam, we needn’t talk 


350 


LOB LIE-B T-THE-FIRE. 


about it now. But I’m dying of curiosity as to the 
mainstay of all this good luck.” 

“ The turnips ” began Miss Betty. 

“ Bless my soul, Miss Betty ! ” cried the lawyer, 
“ I’m not talking turnips. “ I’m talking of Lob Lie- 
by-the-fire, as all the country side is for that 
matter.” 

“ The country people have plenty of tales of him,” 
said Miss Betty, with some pride in the family 
goblin. “ He used to haunt the old barns, they say, 
in my great-grandfather’s time.” 

“And now you’ve got him back again,” said the 
lawyer. 

“Not that I know of,” said Miss Betty. 

On which the lawyer poured into her astonished 
ear all the latest news on the subject, and if it had 
lost nothing before reaching his house in the town, 
it rather gained in marvels as he repeated it to Miss 
Betty. 

No wonder that the little lady was anxious to 
get home to question Thomasina, and that some- 
what before the usual hour she said : 

“ Sister Kitty, if it’s not too soon for the ser- 
vant ” 

And the parson, threading his way to where Mrs. 
Dunmaw’s china crape shawl (dyed crimson) shone 
in the bow window, said, “ The clergy should keep 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIRE. 


351 


respectable hours, madam ; especially when they are 
as old as I am. Will you allow me to thank you for 
a very pleasant evening, and to say good night ? ” 

THE PARSON AND THE LUBBER-FIEND. 

“ Do you think there’d be any harm in leaving it 
alone, sister Betty ? ” asked Miss Kitty, tremulously. 

They had reached Lingborough, and the parson 
had come in with them, by Miss Betty’s request, 
and Thomasina had been duly examined. 

“ Eh, Miss Betty, why should ye chase away good 
luck with the minister,” cried she. 

“ Sister Kitty ! Thomasina ! ” said Miss Betty. 
“ I would not accept good luck from a doubtful 
quarter to save Lingborough. But if it can face this 
excellent clergyman, the Being who haunted my 
great-grandfather’s farm is still welcome to the old 
barns, and you, Thomasina, need not grudge It 
cream or curds.” 

“ You’re quite right, sister Betty,” said Miss Kitty. 
“ you always are ; but oh dear, oh dear ! ” 

“ Thomasina tells me,” said Miss Betty, turning to 
the parson, “ that on chilly evenings It sometimes 
comes and lies by the kitchen fire after they have 
gone to bed, and I can distinctly remember my 
grandmother mentioning the same thing. Thomasina 
has of late left the kitchen door on the latch for Its 


352 


LOB LIE-B T-THE-FIRE. 


convenience, as they had to sit up late for us, she 
and Annie have taken their work into the still-room 
to leave the kitchen free for Lob Lie-by-the-fire. 
They have not looked into the kitchen this evening, 
as such beings do not like to be watched. But they 
fancy that they heard It come in. I trust, sir, that 
neither in myself nor my sister Kitty does timidity 
exceed a proper feminine sensibility, where duty is 
concerned. If you will be good enough to precede 
us, we will go to meet the old friend of my great- 
grandfather’s fortunes, and we leave it entirely to 
your valuable discretion to pursue what course you 
think proper on the occasion.” 

“ Is this the door ? ” said the parson, cheerfully, 
after knocking his head against black beams and 
just saving his legs down shallow and unexpected 
steps on his way to the kitchen — beams so unfelt 
and steps so familiar to the women that it had never 
struck them that the long passage was not the most 
straightforward walk a man could take — “ I think 
you said It generally lies on the hearth ? ” 

The happy thought struck Thomasina that the 
parson might be frightened out of his unlucky in- 
terference. 

“Ay, ay, sir,” said she from behind. “We’ve 
heard him rolling by the fire, and growling like 
thunder to himself. They say he’s an awful size, 


LOB LIE-BY-THE-FIRE. 


353 


too, with the strength of four men, and a long tail, 
and eyes like coals of fire.” 

But Thomasina spoke in vain, for the parson 
opened the door, and as they pressed in, the moon- 
light streaming through the latticed window showed 
Lob lying by the fire. 

“ There’s his tail ! Ay k ! ” screeched Annie the 

lass, and away she went, without drawing breath, 
to the top garret, where she locked and bolted her- 
self in, and sat her bandbox fiat, and screamed for 
help. 

But it was the plumy tail of the sheep dog, who 
was lying there with the Lubber-fiend. And Lob 
was asleep, with his arms round the sheep dog’s neck, 
and the sheep dog’s head lay on his breast, and his 
own head touched the dog’s. 

And it was a smaller head than the parson had 
been led to expect, and it had thick black hair. 

As the parson bent over the hearth, Thomasina 
took Miss Kitty round the waist, and Miss Betty 
clutched her black velvet bag till the steel beads ran 
into her hands, and they were quite prepared for an 
explosion, and sulphur, and blue lights, and thunder. 

And then the parson’s deep round voice broke the 
silence, saying : 

“Is that you, lad? God bless you, John Broom. 
You’re welcome home ! ” 


354 


LOB L1E-B 7- TEE- FIR K 


THE END. 

Some things — such as gossip — gain in the telling, 
but there are others before which words fail, though 
each heart knows its own power of sympathy. And 
such was the joy of the little ladies and of Thoma- 
sina at John Broom’s return. 

The sheep dog had his satisfaction out long ago, 
and had kept it to himself, but how Pretty Cocky 
crowed, and chuckled, and danced, and bowed his 
crest, and covered his face with his amber wings, 
and kicked his seed-pot over, and spilled his water-pot 
on to the Derbyshire marble chess-table, and 
screamed till the room rang again, and went on 
screaming, with Miss Kitty’s pocket-handkerchief 
over his head to keep him quiet, my poor pen can 
but imperfectly describe. 

The desire to atone for the past which had led 
John Broom to act the part of one of those Good- 
Fellows who have, we must fear, finally deserted us, 
will be easily understood. And to a nature of his 
type, the earning of some self-respect, and of a new 
character before others, was perhaps a necessary 
prelude to future well-doing. 

He did do well. He became “ a good scholar,” as 
farmers were then. He spent as much of his 
passionate energies on the farm as the farm would 
absorb, and he restrained the rest. It is not cocka- 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIRR 


355 


toos onty who have sometimes to live and be happy 
in this unfinished life with one wing clipped. 

In fine weather, when the perch was put into the 
garden, Miss Betty was sometimes startled by 
stumbling on John Broom in the dusk, sitting on 
his heels, the unfastened chain in his hand, with his 
black head lovingly laid against Cocky’s white and 
yellow poll, talking in a low voice, and apparently 
with the sympathy of his companion ; and, as Miss 
Betty justly feared, of that “ other side of the 
world,” which they both knew, and which both at 
times had cravings to revisit. 

Even after the sobering influences of middle age 
had touched him, and a- wife and children bound 
him with the quiet ties of home, he had (at long 
intervals) his “restless times,” when his good 
“ missis ” would bring out a little store laid by in 
one of the children’s socks, and would bid him “ Be 
off, and get a breath of the sea air,” but on con- 
dition that the sock went with him as his purse. 
John Broom always looked ashamed to go, but he 
came back the better, and his wife was quite easy 
in his absence, with that confidence in her knowl- 
edge of “ the master,” which is so mysterious to the 
unmarried, and which Miss Betty looked upon as 
“ want of feeling” to the end. She always dreaded 
that he would not return, and a little ruse which 


356 


LOB LIE-B T-THE-MHE. 


she adopted of giving him money to make bargains 
for foreign articles of vertu with the sailors, is 
responsible for many of the choicest ornaments in 
the Lingborough parlor. 

“ The sock’ll bring him home,” said Mrs. Broom, 
and home he came, and never could say what he 
had been doing. Nor was the account given by 
Thomasina’s cousin, who was a tide-waiter down 
yonder, particularly satisfying to the women’s 
curiosity. He said that John Broom was always 
about ; that he went aboard of all the craft in the 
bay, and asked whence they came and whither they 
were bound. That, being once taunted to it, he 
went up the rigging of a big vessel like a cat, and 
came down it looking like a fool. That, as a rule, 
he gossiped and shared his tobacco with sailors 
and fishermen, and brought out the sock much 
oftener than was prudent for the benefit of the 
ragged boys who haunt the quay. 

He had two other weaknesses, which a faithful 
biographer must chronicle. 

A regiment on the march would draw him from 
the plowtail itself, and “ With daddy to see the 
soldiers ” was held to excuse any of Mrs. Broom’s 
children from household duties. 

The other shall be described in the graphic 
language of that acute observer the farm-bailiff. 


LOB LIB-B 7-TBE-BIBB. 


357 


“ If there cam’ an Irish beggar, wi’ a stripy cloot 
roond him and a bellows under’s arm, and ca’d him- 
self a Hielander, the lad wad gi’e him his silly head 
off his shoulders.” 

As to the farm-bailiff, perhaps no one felt more 
or said less than he did on John Broom’s return. 
But the tones of his voice had tender associations 
for the boy’s ears as he took off his speckled hat, 
and after contemplating the inside for some 
moments, put it on again, and said : 

“ Aweel, lad, sae ye’ve cam’ hame ? ” 

But he listened with quivering face when John 
Broom told the story of McAlister, and when it was 
ended he rose and went out, and “ took the pledge ” 
against drink, and — kept it. 

Moved by similar enthusiasm, the cowherd took 
the pledge also, and if he didn’t keep it, he certainly 
drank less, chiefly owing to the vigilant oversight 
of the farm-bailiff, who now exercised his natural 
severity almost exclusively in the denunciation of 
all liquors whatsoever, from the cowherd’s whisky 
to Thomasina’s elder-flower wine. 

The plain cousin left his money to the little old 
ladies, and Lingborough continued to flourish. 

Partly because of this, it is doubtful if John 
Broom was ever looked upon by the rustics as quite 
“ like other folk.” 


358 


LOB LIE-B Y-THE-FIRE. 


The favorite version of his history is that he was 
Lob under the guise of a child ; that he was driven 
away by new clothes ; that he returned from un- 
willingness to see an old family go to ruin “ which 
he had served for hundreds of years ; ” that the 
parson preached his last Sunday’s sermon at him ; 
and that, having stood that test, he took his place 
among Christian people. 

Whether a name invented off-hand, however plain 
and sensible, does not stick to a man as his father’s 
does, is a question. But John Broom was not often 
called by his. 

With Scotch caution, the farm-bailiff seldom 
exceeded the safe title of “Man! ” and the parson 
was apt to address him as “ My dear boy ” when he 
had certainly outgrown the designation. 

Miss Betty called him John Broom, but the 
people called him by the name that he had earned. 

And long after his black hair lay white and thick 
on his head, like snow on the old barn roof, and 
when his dark eyes were dim in an honored old age, 
the village children would point him out to each 
other, crying, “ There goes Lob Lie-by-the-fire, the 
Luck of Lingborough ! ” 


A, L. Burt’s Catalogue of Books for 
Young People by Popular Writers, 52- 
58 Duane Street, New York 


BOOKS FOR GIRLS. 

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. By Lewis Carroll. 

12mo, cloth, 42 illustrations, price 75 cents. 

“From first to last, almost without exception, this story is delightfully 
droll, humorous and illustrated in harmony with the story.” — New York 
Express. 

Through the Looking Glass, and What Alice Found 

There. By Lewis Carroll. 12mo, cloth, 50 illustrations, price 75 cents. 

“A delight alike to the young people and their elders, extremely funny 
both in text and illustrations.” — Boston Express. 

Little Lucy’s Wonderful Globe. By Charlotte M. 

Yonge. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 

“This story is unique among tales intended for children, alike for pleas- 
ant instruction, quaintness of humor, gentle pathos, and the subtlety with 
which lessons moral and otherwise are conveyed to children, and perhaps 
to their seniors as well.” — The Spectator. 

Joan’s Adventures at the North Pole and Elsewhere. 

By Alice Corkran. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 

“Wonderful as the adventures of Joan are, it must be admitted that 
they are very naturally worked out and very plausibly presented. Alto- 
gether this is an excellent story for girls.” — Saturday Review. 

Count Up the Sunny Days : A Story for Girls and Boys. 

By C. A. Jones. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 

“An unusually good children’s story.” — Glasgow Herald. 

The Dove in the Eagle’s Nest. By Charlotte* M. 

Yonge. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 

“Among all the modern writers we believe Miss Yonge first, not in 
genius, but in this, that she employs her great abilities for a high and 
noble purpose. We know of few modern writers whose works m ?/ be so 
safely commended as hers.” — Cleveland Times. 

Jan of the Windmill. A Story of the Plains. By Mrs. 

J. H. Ewing. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 

“Never has Mrs. Ewing published a more charming volume, and that 
is saying a very great deal. From the first to the last the' book over- 
flows' with the strange knowledge of child-nature which so rarely sur- 
vives childhood: and moreover, with inexhaustible quiet humor, which 
is never anything but innocent and well-bred, never priggish, and never 
clumsy. ’ ’ — Academy. 

A Sweet Girl Graduate. By L. T. Meade. 12mo, cloth, 

illustrated, price $1.00. 

“One of this popular author’s best. The characters are well imagined 
and drawn. The story moves with plenty of spirit and the interest does 
not flag until the end too quickly comes.”— Providence Journal. 

For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of pi +, by the 

publisher, A.' L. BURT, 52-58 Duane Street, New York. 


2 A. L. BURIES BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE 


BOOKS FOR GIRLS. 

Six to Sixteen: A Story for Girls. By Juliana 

Horatia Ewing. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 

“There is no doubt as to the good quality and attractiveness of ‘Sis to 
Sixteen.’ The book is one which would enrich any girl’s book shelf.”— 
St. James’ Gazette. 

The Palace Beautiful: A Story for Girls. By L. T. 

Meade. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 

“A bright and interesting story. The many admirers of Mrs. L. T. 
Meade in this country will be delighted w T ith the ‘Palace Beautiful’ for 
more reasons than one. It is a charming book for girls.” — New York 
Recorder. 

A World of Girls: The Story of a School. By L. T. 

Meade. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 

“One of those wholesome stories which it does one good to read. It 
will afford pure delight to numerous readers. This book should be on 
every girl’s book shelf.” — Boston Home Journal. 

The Lady of the Forest : A Story for Girls. By L. T. 

Meade. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 

“This story is written in the author’s well-known, fresh and easy style. 
All girls fond of reading will be charmed by this well-written story. It 
is told with the author’s customary grace and spirit.” — Boston Times. 

At the Back of the North Wind. By George Mac- 

donald. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 

“A very pretty story, with much of the freshness and vigor of Mr. Mac- 
donald’s earlier work. . . . It is a sweet, earnest, and w T holesome fairy 

story, and the quaint native humor is delightful. A most delightful vol- 
ume for young readers.” — Philadelphia Times. 

The Water Babies: A Fairy Tale for a Land Baby. 

By Charles Kingsley. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 

“The strength of his work, as well as its peculiar charms, consist in 
his description of the experiences of a youth with life under water in the 
luxuriant wealth of which he revels with all the ardor of a poetical na- 
ture.” — New York Tribune. 

Our Bessie. By Rosa 1ST. Carey. 12mo, cloth, illus- 

strated, price $1.00. 

“One of the most entertaining stories of the season, full of vigorous 
action, and strong in character-painting. Elder girls will be charmed with 
it, and adults may read its pages with profit.” — The Teachers’ Aid. 

Wild Kitty. A Story of Middleton School. By L. T. 

Meade. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 

“Kitty is a true heroine — warm-hearted, self-sacrificing, and, as all 
good women nowadays are, largely touched with the enthusiasm of human- 
ity. One of the most attractive gift books of the season.” — The Academy. 

A Young Mutineer. A Story for Girls. By L. T. 

Meade. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 

“One of Mrs. Meade’s charming books for girls, narrated in that simple 
and picturesque style which marks the authoress as one of the first among 
waiters for young people.” — The Spectator. 


For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price bv the 
publisher, A. L. BURT, 52-58 Duane Street, New Ygrk, 


A. L. BURT'S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE, 


3 


BOOKS FOR GIRLS. 

Sue and I. By Mrs. O'Reilly. 12mo, cloth, illus- 

trated, price 75 cents. 

“A thoroughly delightful book, full of sound wisdom as well as fun.”— 
Athenaeum. 

The Princess and the Goblin. A Fairy Story. By 

George Macdonald. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 

“If a child once begins this book, it will get so deeply Interested in 
it that when bedtime comes it will altogether forget the moral, and will 
weary its parents with importunities for just a few minutes more to see 
how everything ends.” — Saturday Review. 

Pythia's Pupils: A Story of a School. By Eva 

Hartner. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price Si. 00. 

“This story of the doings of several bright school girls is sure to interest 
girl readers. Among many good stories for girls this is undoubtedly one 
of the very best.” — Teachers’ Aid. 

A Story of a Short Life. By Juliana Horatia Ewing. 

12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 

“The book is one we can heartily recommend, for it is not only bright 
and interesting, but also pure and healthy in tone and teaching.” — 
Courier. 

The Sleepy King. A Fairy Tale. By Aubrey Hop- 

wood and Seymour Hicks. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 

“Wonderful as the adventures of Bluebell are, it must be admitted that 
they are very naturally worked out and very plausibly presented. 
Altogether this is an excellent story for girls.” — Saturday Review. 

Two Little Waifs. By Mrs. Molesworth. 12mo, 

cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 

“Mrs. Molesworth’s delightful story of ‘Two Little Waifs’ will charm 
all the small people who find it in their stockings. It relates the ad- 
ventures of two lovable English children lost in Paris, and is just wonder- 
ful enough to pleasantly wring the youthful heart.” — New York Tribune. 

Adventures in Toyland. By Edith King Hall. 12mo, 

cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 

“The author is such a bright, cheery writer, that her stories are 
always acceptable to all who are not confirmed cynics, and her record of 
the adventures is as entertaining and enjoyable as we might expect.” — 
Boston Courier. 

Adventures in Wallypug Land. By G-. E. Farrow. 

l2mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 

“These adventures are simply inimitable, and will delight boys and girls 
of mature age, as well as their juniors. No happier combination of 
author and artist than this volume presents could be found to furnish 
healthy amusement to the young folks. The book is an artistic one in 
every sense.” — Toronto Mail. 

Fussbudget’s Folks. A Story for Young Girls. By 

Anna F. Burnham. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 

“Mrs. Burnham has a rare gift for composing stories for children. With 
a light, yet forcible touch, she paints sweet and artless, yet natural and 
stroug, characters.” — Congregationalism 

For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the 
publisher, A. L. BURT, 52-58 Duane Street, New York, 


4 A. L. BURU’S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE 


BOOKS FOR GIRLS. 

Mixed Pickles. A Story for Girls. By Mrs. E. M. 

Field. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 

“It is, in its way, a little classic, of which the real beauty and pathos 
can hardly be appreciated by young people. It is not too much to say 
of the story that it is perfect of its kind.” — Good Literature. 

Miss Mouse and Her Boys. A Story for Girls. By 

Mrs. Molesworth. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 

“Mrs. Molesworth’s books are cheery, wholesome, and particularly well 
adapted to refined life. It is safe to add that she is the best English prose 
writer for children. A new volume from Mrs. Molesworth is always a 
treat.” — The Beacon. 

Gilly Flower. A Story for Girls. By the author of 

“Miss Toosey’s Mission.” 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price SI. 00. 

“Jill is a little guardian angel to three lively brothers who tease and 
play with her. . . . Her unconscious goodness brings right thoughts 

and resolves to several persons who come into contact with her. There is 
no goodiness in this tale, but its influence is of the best kind.” — Literary 
World. 

The Chaplet of Pearls ; or, The White and Black Ribau- 

mont. By Charlotte M. Yonge. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 

“Full of spirit and life, so well sustained throughout that grown-up 
readers may enjoy it as much as children. It is one of the best books of 
the season.” — Guardian. 

Naughty Miss Bunny: Her Tricks and Troubles. By 

Clara Mulholland. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 

“The naughty child is positively delightful. Papas should not omit the 
book from their list of juvenile presents.” — Land and Water. 

Meg’s Friend. By Alice Corkran - . 12mo, cloth, 

illustrated, price $1.00. 

“One of Miss Corkran’s charming books for girls, narrated in that simple 
and picturesque style which marks the authoress as one of the first among 
writers for young people.” — The Spectator. 

Averil. By Rosa N. Carey. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, 

price $1.00. 

“A charming story for young folks. Averil is a delightful creature — 
piquant, tender, and true — and her varying fortunes are perfectly real- 
istic. ”— World. 

Aunt Diana. By Rosa N. Carey. 12mo, cloth, illus- 

trated, price $1.00. 

“An excellent story, the interest being sustained from first to last. 
This is, both in its intention and the way the story is told, one of the 
best books of its kind which has come before us this year.” — Saturday 
Review. 

Little Sunshine’s Holiday: A Picture from Life. By 

Miss Mulock. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 

“This is a pretty narrative of child life, describing the simple doings 
and sayings of a very charming and rather precocious child. This is a 
delightful book for young people.” — Gazette. 

For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the 
* publisher, A. L. BURT, 52-58 Duane Street, New York. 
















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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 






